three breaths deep and hold

ii.

            ii.

Storm came . . .

     down from tangerine sky of birds

at kiss of dusk, hopeless to no end in its fall

     that slumber settles its reprieve

in the droop of eyelids, ever defiant,

     and renders to stillness pitter-patter chatter

of minds, petulant,

     unto the point sheep-less:

gone, finally,—dreamscape frolic,

     where day forbids fantasies of night's slumber.

©ECole789 1/15/17