Categories > Original > Poetry
two shorts
0 ReviewsTwo sort of abstract drabbles I wrote on the drive up to Washington for Thanksgiving. :P
The way the chocolate melted on her palate, how the rich, sophisticated cream seemed to glide through her mouth. Eliciting such content, such pleasure. Tasted like his voice. Like bittersweet dark, his quiet reverberating hum, her ear against his chest. Like light mousse, his whisper close to her ear.Like silky sweet when the words roll off his lips in animated discussion. Like cocoa when he smiles, like rosy truffles when he laughs. Tasted like his eyes.
***
Streaked the sky like an errant milk spill. They danced across the sky, light and yet textured like that of a fairy feather blowing across the wind. They are orange, tinged with the deepest pink, like a rose sorbet. They are veined, reminiscent of fire the way they spread from the core, the colors deepening as they go. The vibrant flames of the heavenly spills contrast incredibly with the almost lime green of the horizon. Golden yellow blends effortlessly into playful blue. As though fire met with the calmest of rivers. Stark against the indigo silhouettes of mountains, the tops of far off streaks peek their heads up, their blood red hair a final salute as they disappear beyond the never-far.
Gaze drifts north and the colors become muddled. The clouds are now charcoal, billowing out to join with the inky sky. The overhead bears down upon the twilight, the promise of engulf so apparent in its countenance. The nighttime smiles sweetly, a grin that does not grace its eyes of glass. Its embrace is enticing, a dark chocolate morsel, slowly creeping from the eastern darkness. It dances, a slow and methodic waltz that hypnotizes the senses. Pulling into a deep lull, now tis the puppet master.
And now it is complete. Only the dimmest of glows stretch the western horizon, rimming the rolling hills in ethereal lining. Everywhere finally dark save the stars. Years away they dance.
***
Streaked the sky like an errant milk spill. They danced across the sky, light and yet textured like that of a fairy feather blowing across the wind. They are orange, tinged with the deepest pink, like a rose sorbet. They are veined, reminiscent of fire the way they spread from the core, the colors deepening as they go. The vibrant flames of the heavenly spills contrast incredibly with the almost lime green of the horizon. Golden yellow blends effortlessly into playful blue. As though fire met with the calmest of rivers. Stark against the indigo silhouettes of mountains, the tops of far off streaks peek their heads up, their blood red hair a final salute as they disappear beyond the never-far.
Gaze drifts north and the colors become muddled. The clouds are now charcoal, billowing out to join with the inky sky. The overhead bears down upon the twilight, the promise of engulf so apparent in its countenance. The nighttime smiles sweetly, a grin that does not grace its eyes of glass. Its embrace is enticing, a dark chocolate morsel, slowly creeping from the eastern darkness. It dances, a slow and methodic waltz that hypnotizes the senses. Pulling into a deep lull, now tis the puppet master.
And now it is complete. Only the dimmest of glows stretch the western horizon, rimming the rolling hills in ethereal lining. Everywhere finally dark save the stars. Years away they dance.
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