Ah, that airy feeling.
Loneliness blows like leaves on trees moving.
And birds make the noises necessary
as they find their perches for the night.
Everything is doing it’s thing.
Everything is doing it’s thing exactly as it does
every single damn dusk
and goes unnoticed
on all the other days ya don’t feel blue.
Like the camphor laurels standing like brick shithouses,
reflecting light from their new growth,
fluro green like feathers of frogs.
And tawny’s in twos,
only to be seen as feathers not bark
when you give them your lonely time.
I can’t help but feel overwhelmed.
The way the clouds drift and sink.
And black takes over and everything transcends.
Silent and so noisy,
Vacant and so alive.
The crickets blind the air with this monotone,
this one you can tune in and out of.
As easy as lifting a drinkto your lips
to wash the day’s silly away.