To M.

But where are her blue ink, blue quills,

Those renegades cursed to write?

Only sneaky brambles in sight, or words

Of farewell while the salesgirl chirps

‘Care for a gift wrap? It’s free!’-

Soon those blue, percussive summer blows

Will smash minds, and souls, as they deeply resent

A lost age, the green flowing through grass,

And  the sour taste of sins-

Don’t look now, my soul, light is on the hunt,

Not a shy girl hiding in blue winters,

But a rebel fighter whenever Father forwards

Births to heaven, among spasms, or bites-

Just go easy on dark curtains,

Those blue shades against you,

As in other stares life’s hiding, lost days, maybe your fear-

Yes, of course it’s a bloody scam when food air souls

They all breathe, but only lost leaves go back to April,

While the missing stay trapped in your lap,

A dark hideout where desire shuns dreams,

Words fall away, but hey, no need to worry

If he sneers at your fire,

His life, his rules, and no hassle

When his henchmen throw the moon

To a rambling light,

As a woman's gaze is getting near

To share her flow with loss and leaves,

Or so fathers say, then run for the hills,

Shreds of sky their only gift-

Painted trinkets, sure, but no good at all,

And they can’t run away to boot.