The Convict

This morning thousand rays
of the auburn sun
crawls into the insipid skin
of the blue dome
eyes burn in silence and anguish
of a hushed day;
pastel hues inundate the backdrop
of mind

I speak of a day of fuchsia dreams
of a syllabi of hyped lilies and bougainvilleas
the dews that hang perilously
from their mouth
'The Flame of the Forest'
speculate a cawing crow,
its frustrated call for mating
a single cloths-line hum a desolate tune
the beetles feed on cow-dung

A desperate soul stitches
the pensive hours in the
frame of time. Bats blinded
by the day hangs on the
willow trees by the marsh. A convict,
in iron manacles lurches about
in ambush.