Sometimes

A poem about life's intricacies

Sometimes it is brazen. Sometimes it is avant-garde.

Sometimes it’s a light surprise and other times it’s a sturdy house 

In a misty bed of deeply rooted times.

Sometimes it is square, sometimes it’s unwilling sexy and yet 

Many times, it’s a glare from Salvador as you eye myself bare.

An empty skull of flesh.

Sometimes it’s in Rupees. In the fun times it’s a book,

Then the wind chimes and it becomes a puzzle with 168 

Identically shaped pieces, yet in Avron times, it was that thick, 

Chained, black-framed postcard bought to save a second thought.

Sometimes it’s blue; however this time t’is pink and green 

Forcing hands in the air with little consideration for the impracticalities of said position until breath, Like the weather, changes, and that glee for thee remains a forgotten past-time.

And although each time, I remember that time. I still hear what sounds as, at least at the time, 

Sweet sweet music to delve and discover a time, blissfully unclothed in a world where tenderness is the only currency.