I Sing My Own Sonata

In the morning reading one stranger was carried away, hints of apple butter in the air, quiet rustling of red oaks, cimmerian flights overhead, a sentry singularly boxed. The sun has risen in orange linen. This old mourning returns again and ears open to Tchaikovsky’s pitch. Piano sonata’s gentle, his smile sinks fissured fountains, failing blue in the basic repertoire of sunrise whimpers, playing to tunes tawny owl’s hoot left with mysterious tone. Footprints drift in the garden below, someone has left quick. How harsh this autumn is. How serious season’s face shifts daisied by Shasta’s that peal back in sensual petals to pick blooming daydreams obscured by the slumber of leaves. The dark gold of rotting flowers face off surface brightly. Your eyelids are heavy with poppy dust, and dreams fall softly on my mind the tinkling trembles cold muller, much like four doubled strings of the Guitarra Latina replaces Pyotr’s “Overture of The Seasons”, “The Hunt” and “Autumn’s Song” come into being. Familiar steps bend eyes upward to the jackdaws in flight, a vision of black rafters, an open window in which hope flies, the purple flame of my silky lingua leaps out mouthy. Into stillness, my soul’s anxious and lonely string-music dies down. I lean silently over the edge, looks of the blue face thought offers, while that oak is consumed by red flames and bitterness flutters past your heavy eyelids black dew drips temples of star’s fading.Please tell me what you really think! Written September 26th, 2001 © on Sep 26 2001 08:12 AM PST   0 • 12