They are all flavours – sensory shades
claiming abbreviated economies until
you try saying them – blasé tonalities
clash in antipathetic colour-dread and
light trills pall into tuneless pap; there
is no going back to nuances of grand
naivety, no slipper-shod shuffle into
cuddle-complete arms of a nursery
Laze in the shade for as long as your
patience pays homage, these are not
guarantees of life everlasting, merely
ideas-shared feelings as keys you’ve
used to see more adequately than
words could properly describe
©29 December 2012, I. D. Carswell
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