visionaries, of sorts, we are.|
hopelessly romantic visionaries,
of some dead era,
when suiting up in the blackest, most pristine,
and you, being swallowed up,
in a cascade of ruffles and waves,
of sheer, delicate cuts of pattern,
was the talk of the town.
it was a time we should have lived,
that we could have prepared dinners,
believing in nothing but God, friends,
and the silent dialogue between,
gray and blue-green eyes.
it was a time spent at dinner,
laughter spreading like a flu,
and the only worry being that my hand,
was not close enough to yours.
but here we are!
modernity and it's subtle devices,
creep in like the foxes,
that always spoil the vineyard,
unallowing of honesty,
but preoccupied with glitter-
with secret conversation,
as birds that whistle from tree to tree,
suddenly silenced by a din of thunder,
signaling the storm is already too close to hide.
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