by Stefon Napier16 Dec 2013
On a silent hill waiting,
leaves come by and rest awhile in my palms.
I am perceived by none
except the odorless glances of the wind
and thoughts fathomed by friends as they linger in their own waiting.
Oh, the creaky attire of my oak trees against the crisp decorum of your folded napkins in congruency with some narrow Paris street.
My vast tinder blue against the fleeting azure can withstand but
my dreams can perish for thoughts about you.