Indian summer.

Streets are flowing into immortality

like thoughts, indian summer aimlessly

walking where wind is unnoticed, dousing city lights

one by one.

　

All the motions stopped their traveling to envy

the dynamics of peace, after smelling the paths

with eyes mute and large, they grew beside the misery

into smaller planetariums, whirling around days

that pass with nothing more but ignorance itself.

　

Very lonely is the tolerance, even lonelier the nerves

that cross swords to defend the dirt

which keeps the truth flawless, but look at kismet

how amused he truly is in his race with the clouds,

counting avenues of trees in the last corner of his focus,

until the sunny side up is washing out the tops.

　

First petting of the morning is dawn,

as the first stroke of life is faith,

naked from celebration, escapade.

　

Indian summer found the aspiration

in storms to rise like élite of hearts, not to fade

into denying but to deafen from noiselessness.

Bodies that swallowed the stars, stole waves

from the ocean and now dance sea-sick, scattering

like blue crystal thick, over life to come.

copyright, 2010. Tihana Novosel.