Silver over the rust.

The noon is squirming along the wilderness

waiting for Earth to spin

as gracious as a petticoat in sway,

nervously rubbing the hands

on the feeling of words in a fur,

envelopping emotion of a voice,

blackbird's song in a perfect blur,

walking alone, turning every stone

awaking laments, clashing the hornes of

poise and silence swimming inside the stares.

All is alive, dancing,

traveling,

slipping over the azure oil,

etheric yens bathing, unable to walk

as madness disfigures the metal

of the sun

that softened into furling

of one single shade.

The green of the pines

drinks the mellow out of storm-kissed eyes,

feasts upon the fainting spells,

a moment that yells into the ears

that took vows and two trembling hands

cupping what is left from a thoughtful yore. 

I have seen life that ends

on the edge of a body

just to sleepwalk around the neck,

watching the lips replying with silver

to the whispers rusty of lingering.

copyright, 2010. Tihana Novosel