Yellow Signs Rising

Yellow sun rising
as a silken thread is spun through the air,
through twists and turns,
ups and downs,
slides and glides.
The words form slowly,
gently.
Their cursive leaves longing,
turning circles round the room
for the unspoken thoughts
of smiles and glances.

Yellow tides rising
as a cotton yarn floats among unified breath,
curving and racing,
turning sharply avoiding the walls
built from silence.
The words form carefully,
hopefully.
Their swirled print twists,
making a smooth web
so fine and full
of remember-whens and long-agos.

Yellow signs rising
as twine moves along the earth,
turning sharply avoiding the walls,
jerking and stabbing,
making sharp angles.
The words form quickly,
thoughtlessly.
Their caps glare in the dark,
leaving ghosts
that linger and ache
of goodbyes and bleeding hearts.

 

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Published by

A Boggus Life

I am an eclectic reader and editor who solves Rubik's cubes, writes, draws and paints, and longs to live in England and France.

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