ReturningA Poem by V.B.If all my poems were foods, this one would be a cupcake.
the evening was dressed in a deep August purple,
and the twilight air felt less like atmosphere than a draught of a soft, vanilla smoke, that slid over our skin till it dripped from our fingertips with every last grace of a calm and velvet honey returning to the earth. and we'll never forget the mist, or how it hung like a stained-glass window of orange and silver and lime while it bent the most stubborn needles of sunset away from the precious tapestry of moonbeams returning to the sky. but it was the truth of the shadows, as they rolled lazily from shingle to sidewalk, that served to wash the moment clean of nostalgias which might otherwise weary we fortunate few, who were, though barely afloat on this stream of consciousness, returning to the stars. © 2011 V.B.Featured Review
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Added on April 5, 2011Last Updated on April 5, 2011 Author
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