In the coolness of yielding vegetation, I take to the sordid meadow. Where lilies flourish innumerably. An inevitable sky, a hollow blue. The wooded trees and flesh anew. Breeding vastly, imbedded in the deep horizon. Sprinkling mayflies, the pale and remote sun rises, then descends upon my weary eyelids. The browning boughs of grazing holly, the oak upon the soiled landscape. An open field that stretches, then left unraveling, onto a flattened plateau..
A braided picnic basket, upon a wounded genre. What era does one perceive here? In black and white television screened intervals. Norman Rockwell in all his appraising glory, does fill the amber walkways with fallen snow. Then the nightlights of old incandescent theater entrances. The fluorescent streetlamps that align the downtown street. A Friday night with it's meticulous threads and laces, and high heeled shoes, it are these that I shall efface,. from my deluded consciousness, the pattering in reclusive midnight taverns. My soul left diminishing into the stale hours of morning. The unrewarding toasts of bubbly, beside a residential fireplace, below the atrophied mantlepiece. The intoxicating hearth, spreads aromatic breezes that trickle down the carpeted hallway. Her milky breasts heave, above the lining of her early twentieth century garment. The afternoon garden was voluptuous, beside the outside table, we exchanged glances. Below the violet awnings, and over cakes and tea. You said to me, "What do we do, now that the day is nearly over?", it was at this moment, my universe flickered, as I wiped my dampened brow and began sweating profusely. My suicidal instinct did reach it's uncanny and frivolous peak.
Our moments have always subsided, in leisure I rest now upon the living room recliner, (glass in hand),. playing over the trivial events that transpired between us. The evening moon shall take to it's sultry chamber, amidst desirable star formations, that you call constellations.
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