the sky speaks of Van Gogh tonight ―

the neon-Coldplay colors splash the night sky

as if it was an off-white strewn canvas

and the colors were acrylic-, watercolor-, and oil-based all at once


the weeping willow whistles winds

while he and I whisper unto each other’s faces,

pointing toward the horizon saying,

I cannot see beyond it, I cannot see beyond it


while marketplace workers bustle in their whereabouts,

we sit under spacious skies, on emerald waves of countryside

and breathe in the woodsy smell of fall

and listen to the surreptitious slithering of snakes, careful not to ignite war


the lake isle of Innisfree is naught compared to this ―

this cerulean spectacle of a moment,

the fragrant draft combing through your musky skin,

the sweetest love under a moonlit-indigo night


let us make ourselves new in this ancient realm,

I say, as you place wet kisses on my lilac cheeks

and with those blue orbs that I revolve around, you say

you cannot see beyond it, you cannot see beyond it.