crimitive

[crimitive]

Idle

Goalposts tinted gold, The city’s height - I’m captured, enthralled. Balmain glows rosily, The shoreline humming cosily.

This Friday, I’m alone, Observing from my home. My neighbours - their names I can’t recall - They’re preparing to cycle. With or against the wind? I can’t help but idle.

I water my plants, Thinking of solitude. Feeding Tanisha’s golden palm, And Lauren’s climbing arm. The tendrils, they dance, Dripping of mollitude.

While I sigh into Spring’s effortless breath, Her tenderness carries my measureless dread.

I think down to the Point, Directing my energy to its spoilt, Patchworked veneer, Bound by blankets Stretched far across the clear.

I close my eyes, feel their collective sigh of relief, As though these past thirteen weeks, though brief, Were spent craving inklings of connection, In the same way I prayed for attention.

[crimitive]

Poppies

I couldn’t help but notice Your yard’s abundance of poppies. Your garden pristine, Each growth a delightful copy.

Precisely then did I proceed, To pry some poppies from their seed.

But as winter’s bare breath Exhaled harshly atop my beds, I realised I lacked The same touch, the same finesse.

As spring rolled around, I tried to take stock. To reflect on your ground, And why mine died of shock.

I glanced at your garden, The brilliant candied hues. Pink’s, orange, yellow, red’s. Linked, and arranged in mellow beds.

I glared back at mine, The earth dense and sparse. A graveyard of seeds That would simply never heed, A fruitful display of my labour.

All that remains is dust, And the memories of my failure.