She means for summer to remain unsung
The corrugated angles of soft blown dreams,
Fading into a rheumy-eyed forever.
Summer is a poem with verses-
A terminal case,
The finite state swirling into unknown depths.
She means for summer to never have come,
It’s poison laced,
like the wire guillotine
That severs many a body
from sanity.
Summer is a promise forgotten
Blackberry stained memories washing away in the wind,
Ideas dissipating into the abyss of some sea.
She means for summer to burn bright,
Hotter and hotter,
With the frequency like that of infrared light
But quick to come,
Means quick to leave-
But summer is dead to her
like all the people swimming in her dreams.
Summer is dog day lazy,
The mutt lying supine on scratchy pavement squares,
Saliva dripping from sulfurous teeth that rot by the second-
and sink into the earth.
She means for summer to last,
But it is the Venetian gondola floating into bittersweet blue waters,
Taste of cantaloupe, dripping down her cotton shirt...
Summer is the eternal nothingness,
The journeys no Homer cares to immortalize,
The poems unread,
Tunes unsung,
A nostalgia that isn’t meant to be,
And a luxury she is terrified of losing.