That Was April

Dawn chorus as the shadows kneel,

A misplaced wish crawling... 

Milk yet to spill.

Fool's day: an empty shell of fun,

Embracing music going deaf, 

Sipping on overhead sun.

A beginning... Any other could have been...

That was April, 

Began...

In dusted sheen. 

A day dressed in purple silk, 

Drenched in butter,

An evening of messy stroll, 

A cocoa-stained letter.

List of 'to-be' and 'to-do's 

Framed, 

Erased, 

And hidden...

A new venture danced, 

Then held hostage,

Unseen.

Sour tears, one sweetening mango, 

Year's worth of wait,

Breath craving eight minutes, 

Syllables spewing weight.

Familiar alien in tepid vessel 

Of thirty-four (Å) eras and stories,

Reminiscing sky and light

In towers of seventeen storeys.

In darkest shade of blue

Muse is awake 

Gallivanting relief on cue

Bead of sleep, 

Threaded upon yellow gerbera, 

Long held due.

Push and pull, 

Jazz on a whim of pause and play,

Tree of golden showers

Spreading wings, paving for a Lay.

A decade of seconds and minutes... 

Ones of rattle and wrinkle,

A little flawed, a little frayed, 

Feathers in ruffle.

A trace of passion, too, 

Memories wrapped in tinsel,

Ounces of love on lips, 

That... was April. 

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