Clay.

Parch'd, coded in shades, o' desiccated conifer;

but flora withers, obtains an ancient monicker.

Just like us, it ebbs, gettin' stained in rust;

my verse then limps and loses its impetus.

In smithereens, like starch it now despairs,

an inch of her wrests, the rest begins to wear.

She waxes sullen, for manners make listen;

and it isn't too often that its all of a sudden. 

Its autumn compassion that makes us weak,

the fronds atrophy,  and trespass critique.

That does smarten, and ichor rushes ribbons,

with cold comfort, its often it so worsens.

Ah distress! Smirk at what coppice did me,

I stumbl'd and pined in forlorn harmony. 

She screamed, resonating with merriment;

our reverie compeer'd, still incoherent.

Its now gotten late, even the aspens 'ave dull

just as I have to go, an amour's seasonal.

I unearth'd her and disremember'd courtesy;

now I dig 'neath, beside those solitary trees.

(Bide) Unhurried.

"Welcome back, you domino

rubber soul and your stilettos. 

Mystery in these wintry sets

a pack of cards,  your silhouettes."

Unlost, he cast his mind,

as she evince'd and bespeak'd;

it chided, slapped a wrist,

astute and unwillingly weak.

Something had got to give,

a delicate him wouldn't allow;

inept and wan by all of this,

she stuck upon his eyebrows.

Overused, she mutely reckon'd -

truckloads of horrid caramel,

she unpack'd for a little bit,

a discouraged him did trouble.

Debris.

Her impatient, misspelt rhetoric

and the repose I never knew,

I'll straddle with purple prose,

of how I wish I still had you.

So subtly let these rhymes decide,

bickering almost never ceases,

I'll slowly make verse recite,

your whims and begone caprices.

 

The point at which you'd respond,

and that's when my blood'd thicken,

but this time, you carve unhurried,

an affection thats scattered in ruin.

Mire.

Thanks to your simple prose
within which I lay transfixed
upon meticulously crafted lines
and self inflicted tricks.

Forward march, and the hand
held by cumbersome ties,
placated by visual randomness,
and lifelessness inside.

Fragile strands of your writing
chits in unsung minutes of delay,
clamped to my saddened skin
those ribbon games we played.

'Its your wheel to make China'
and me, I'm the clay that hurt,
the leftover wet sand today,
lies stitched in dismal earth.

Therein, you unlost the dirt
believing you made ground,
songs which spelt haywire
bludgeoning their own sound.

So sit timid, atop your ferris wheel
screaming plots through wire,
I'll stay, twirling rhymes and
doing my best in sorrowed admire.

Tonight, we'll lose rationality, smitten within
minutes lost to wholesome wits,
And I'll melt away searching for
those sidestepped verses and chits.

Selfish.

I'll sleep over another, brown box of these,
an ignorant set, of caramel nobodies.
Now we'd be muted, mend olive grief,
turning bitter, my quiet, peppermint leaf.

But its her behavior, vinegar and vague yet
resplendent, she assays dispirited speak;
elegiac by intention, a lifeless form of me,
we hold it back, sterile, sedate and weak.

Cleav'd.

Betwixt fain and ruth, she'd getup and sip,
the vintage, you always wish one achieves;
prithee overrules sentiment, whilst now she,
sponges her face across my unclean sleeves.

Now that I, hang the polo neck out to dry,
I longingly stare, wooded in reminiscence;
to describe would take loquacious scripts,
and collars that straighten with eloquence.

This worn-out ruse seems like an era aroint,
along with expression, which seldom matters.
For prudence can make wry argument strife,
in ribbons my shirt, an amour in tatters...

Whimsical.

A discouraged cookie in a desperate room;
dicey dazzle, and dizziness in gloom.

A silent sort in a sullied mood;
steps on stairs, stressed and rude.

A jingle-jangle, she's jejune;
jaded with joy, he spoke too soon.

A negative night, her necklace;
nervous and naive, the look on his face.

A cliched calm, cynical pain;
caving in, my gift of selfish rain.