Surprised by Languor

P1010374Her blood is tar treacle.

The pump runs on mute,

Enchurned in inner workings,

Warped in glossy yearnings.

 

‘Where does the sweet butterfly of summer alight?

Who will be touched by gossamer twinkle?

When will it be my turn?’

 

The moment  was passed.

By far, so long ago.

By blindness, eyes firmly planted

Ahead.

Periphery be damned!