Humid Hangover

This humid blanket,

the fever it gifts,

​is all ​I can muse on,

​and scribble on the wet floor.

The rain stopped last night,

the songs this morning,

and the still air offers​ a wry smile​;

it tells me of today,

yet yanks me into timelessness,

where it shows​​

in infinite ways, love​...​​

​A few drops touch me,

others ​kiss ​the leaves 

and ​rusty ​park benches;

soothing them first,

drowning them later.

​-- Leslie

The Wrinkled

On my terrace,
when I sidestep a crater,
and walk to the west edge,
I know I let hypocrisy survive,
run its course,
and feel blissfully immortal.

Who craves the sun more?
So I walk;
they needed a leader,
and you, dear friend,
needed a freemason to pour
grout on the cracked, wrinkled floor.

Floor?
It is the roof,
the one destined to leak,
drip, drop,
and a river cried by
a poet of very little means.​

-- Leslie 

Ire in the Sleeping Hall

In a daze, time leaves me,

always.

it's midnight,

I am yet to shed my skin,

and sprawl without shame,

without the ironies

that define​ me,​​ 

and ​the hour's light blue light!

12, the reminder

comes with youthful vigour,

shake me up;

but I waste another hour

in jest,

mocking myself,

killing the ​words of 

​birds ​who ​tweet​​​​ for salary.

Dazed, bruised, 

yet in unpopular consciousness,

I remain,

till sleep wakes me up,

splashes ire on my face,

​cleanses my ​mouth 

off bad poetry,

and tucks me into bed.

​-- Leslie