Each.

I captured, a bundle of nerves, 

in this disused, abandoned city;

Sensitive in bicker, senseless in spar,

morning tea with a flurry of activity.

Neither is unkind nor unwelcome,

no longer is each verb a simple noun,

for I won't swallow every phrase, thats as amiss

as reconciliation in this wooden town.

Soon fireworks illuminate the skies, 

merry as those dancing people, I exclaim;

for we'll vamoose before day break,

minus denizens on the harlequin frame

Flake.

She dresses, ribbons of carious grey,

humid in equal rays of mellow sun-set.

And today, splendid, yet resplendent, 

vignettes we made up to foment;

We vent in relent, and now it sinks,

a minute's hand, she lets them think. 

Decorations emerge, contours of naked wear,

they despair, glances of hopeless stare.

The vestige is still anoint, placed level,

with fortitude, she dazzled and swiveled. 

Herein, the drivel was inappropriate,

it dictated as we stretched, as sedate.

Soon, her penchant for me will softly clear,

as when I scribble these lines, the intention disappears.

Stretch.

Your ankle's neat perfection,

and the sections I don't mention,

as without intention, its just the toes;

what have I done to fall so hard?

I get up, knowing you'd stay frozen,

as I'd dash towards the aspen;

my toes - dull, slowly waxed and shunned,

singing another acoustic version.

A knock in disremembered rhymes,

frosted egos in echo-less times;

an equal pretense gets waste

you moribund, paste my brief distaste.

These fluid strides result in quarrel,

while I panic, you gather and jangle;

and entangled, you travel away,

I pinned in my carrel, a horrid day.

Litter.

An army of quiet red ants slips,

slithering through this arid torn;

in twelve harmless beatific minutes,

slaying a day already woebegone. 

These ants are as glad as a clam,

promenading across the marble floor;

spoiling my inebriated claptrap,

for now I can't pretend to ignore.

As they sink 'neath the stills, witless,

in movement - sedate and wintry;

my chary reasoning is nonchalant,

whistle-stopping 'em out of misery.

Flood.

I'll drift off, quietly immersed, 

sour as a lone paper machete;

rainy mornings ebb and wane,

as damp tenor deteriorates.

Hesitating, I weather, bicker

only to later make amends;

for I rescind her for happiness,

and with it, the sweeping winds.

She's at sea, but simmer'd down, 

nonplussed, in keeping, unexcited;

pleated skin at its capricious best,

her whims equally short sighted.

Now I'm untroubled in monsoon,

dusting megrims 'neath the windowsill;

as we eschew from cribbing much,

the zephyr that died at standstill.