beginnings

the crimson-cardinal’s songs
read like sonnets
waltzing through the violet air
and maybe he perches on his favorite
spot on the telephone wire
every day (thesamething)
but his music is Shakespearean;
his silky feathers, a romantical blood-red.

on an idle sunday afternoon,
she curls up on a navy leather couch
with thick socks she’d never wear in public
and her (routinely) glossy locks
caress her thick irish sweater.
the book she reads isn’t assigned for class, nor is it
dubbed “cool” by those who are regularly
a different () version
of themselves.

the handsome bird soars gracefully
among dreamy clouds,
while the (fashionable) closet-nerd
hypocritically reverts to poetry
first sung by mr rose-red’s ancestors.

our tragic heroes never know their zeus-proclaimed futures, condemned to live with .

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A/N: i will totally admit to neglecting my writing this past month(ish). sorry. it is indeed a lazy sunday (thank goodness the clocks went back--i really needed that extra hour of sleep), and tomorrow is halloween! incidentally, i'm not doing anything for that fantastical holiday, but it's nice to be able to be excited about something. a huuuge thank you to the people who haven't given up on me.