once promised, the ice
cream cones and their emulation
of the sun, that afternoon aired sun;
in all the wrong places, at the
complete minute hands of stolen
time, to wait an enternity for a chance
at that one brushstroke of bliss.
the caricatured hearts on the margins
of a mess untold and unfelt,
in sleepless starlit nights and the glow
of the lingering light so soft;
made to a perfect imperfection one can
never, distinguish, per se. that
wind which by all chances found
its dance among locks of charcoal --
in all the familiar places, and the parks
across the way, and the songs which
the birds' peals envied,
much too erratically, and
the unknown final strand of a web
which broke a moment too easily.
and the colors, those shades we never saw;
lost, to be discovered in a fickle while
ever so hurtfully lovely.
