Musings on Desolation

Crimson.
Lustrous.
Plump.

Swaying in the breeze
that rustles the leaves,
it hangs among those
that are

not that crimson,
not quite lustrous, and
not very plump.

The air is sweet
with the scent of ripeness.
Brown-breasted fowls perch
among the branches
with them.

Wisps of white

stream across the sky's ocean
and gradually obscure
the bright disco ball.
Cold whistles past again,
knocking one

not that crimson,
not quite lustrous, and
not very plump

against the
crimson, lustrous, and plump.

Gravity beckons it.
Newton's thoughts are now far away.

With a thunk,
the crimson, lustrous, and plump
lands on thinning
chartreuse hair
scattered along a
soft, auburn scalp.

Brown-breasted fowls
do not pause their
merry little tune
for this;
they continue to perch
on the branches
with the rest that
remain suspended.

Alone, it sits--
wishing to return to where
the others are.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2011