Age— reluctant joy, earthy continual smack,

                  a   l   w   a   y   s

pulls you hard in the quivering rain, slender fingers

dance in the sloppy flames, in the furious heartbeat,

How many are left to cease?

Wind wander in the smooth pages,

forgotten joy               over exquisite

                           quest

on the dappled frown, you look upon

for the hooded day               so you can

                                       peer

silently,                swirl untimid flowers

                muddy

snow, flicker sound in the golden tears

kissing jawline,             the sun deepens

                            whisper

sky, suddenly in the   half    vermifuge.

Life isn't much tart in the elevator well,

nor mortal being, neither the pen writers speaking truth,

                                             f  a  l  l  e  n

leaves, need no excuses and writer-man to cheat—

here's the swing in busted man,

For the well, it must not be empty

always filled with talent or kind, if you can't swim,

you must

                               s
                                    
                                                l

                                                             i

                                                           p.

━━━━━━━━━━━   

— 15th June, 2023