“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Chestnuts roasting
Rolling ares are drumrolls for seduction.
Golden brown skin is warm and toasty to the touch
Purple raven onyx hair spills thick and rich as oil.
Blonde, plain as rolling straw fields under crushed velvet against the cornflower sky,
steel blue machine and John Deere make carbon copies of Barbies.
Talking with the hands demonstrates tactile prowess, in a squint of meaning words wont work,
and yes, I think Russians have the best lips,
I would hazard to guess this-unless I can be proven wrong.
Since making softer and warmer with hard and cold can be concisely done quite malleably, the other way wont work the same.
Along with heat sinking glares and hidden thoughts that need not originate from a family tree, they can be a new seed.
Indeed, to me, exuberant ells and excessive tees can be both
quite love-ly
and always welcome to a poor peasant, such as native to nowhere me
seeking some taste
in a word.
Painting by Sergey Vasilyevich Ivanov, Foreigners arrival to Moscow (1901) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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