The dance is a poem of which each movement is a word. - Mata Hari

December the 15th

Couldn't we just ride To wherever the boulevards ushered us to? With soft symphonies as we'd sing along And just indulge in giggles as we'd forget the lyrics. Ride shore-to-shore — admiring the soothing summer Tides with gracious breezes caressing our skins And marvel at the surfers and the flocking seagulls. The woods would've been ideal, as we'd slowly pass by Flourishing greens nourished by the summer pours, We'd've pause for the fresh puff of cleansed air And listen to the squeaky singing birds. We'd've spread our eyes at the green savannas And the dazzling hues of orange painted by dusk With swarms flying home as darkn'ss engulfs the glint. Why couldn't we forge an infinite ride and just Reminisce at our sweet memories and bitter ordeals? Eavesdrop at the generously humming engine When our word tools get tired of uttering. We'd've hunted a pasta spot and replenish our bellies Mmmh! Rolling our eyes as we'd relish a slice of fudge Picasso and that red velvet tickling our tastebuds. Sadly the ride was short, with your warm beam you bade adieu, nights later the bells tolled on thee.

© Thabani Linda Tshabalala


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