In twilight’s dank and odious arbour,
I look for solace among dead vines.
Their choking hands admit and harbour
Many lies from within their strands.
Too deathly pale the honey suckle rose,
Its pallid echoes breathe and gasp.
Its frown then holds me, and does suppose,
That I too, am often left to the cold.
I bite on rotten forbidden fruits,
Long forgotten and refused by time.
Frightening, but appetising are these shoots
They let me retch whilst savouring.
Picture: Thank you, Paul Militaru
wrap me in their curls
and curves of passion,
tie knots in colourless air
while bodies cup the aromas
of fleeting yesterday
to cool the moist
aura of good times held softly
until each petal falls softly –
fingers flexed and interlocked.
A Quadrille is a 44 word verse.
Season’s warm blushes
New buds held in breathless winds
Will rise through the flames
Day 158/365 – Morgan’s #DailyHaikuChallenge. Join in and link back to her blog.
Tiny fists unfurl
On arms stretched to the sunlight
Buds yawn in springtime
Day 153/365 – Morgan’s #DailyHaikuChallenge. Join in and link back to her blog.
Birds threaded aloft
Buds form spring’s electric volts
Shocks that send shivers
Day 143/365 – Morgan’s #DailyHaikuChallenge. Join in and link back to her blog