the song of the frogs

noise

The song of the frogs 

Your fear should not stop my hands

when a caress is near my fingertips

ready to explode crossing your hair

like a far  firework, the echo of a lost holiday,

the remind of a past happy joyful time.

Your interrogative eyes should not

stare at me like I was the foulest of all  fools

the one that does not know the weight

of the intrinsic value of a blast of words

said just in a moment to be left in the wind.

Heavy inheritance of a world of illusions and

disillusions, all covered with the lightness

of a not hidden superficiality of aims and hopes.

Come here, come here  summer of despair !

light of dead drunk fireflies all around escaping

 when a stone falls in the pond with a deaf sound.

Do you hear the frogs singing their dissonant song?

You so close yet so distant, caring at times

but always closed in your own mystery. 

Come here, come here don’t leave me waiting

In the middle of the seagulls’ noisy meal.

My half lifted hand insecure in a caress,

withdraws in its mortified attempt.

I do not  try to understand the reasons

I do not wonder anymore and yet I am hurt,

I should not but I can’t help a subtle pain,

crawling  sneaky along my veins,

coward,  when I am absent minded

reaching for my  heart and there stopping,

stubborn catching my breath

and taking my words away.

And you , you observe me with your

inquisitive glance like I was something exotic

coming from outer worlds and from outer galaxies,

with my charge of ironic too subtle humor

and unexpressed enigmatic poetry.

Come here, come here months of lazy intimacy,

talking like we were the only ones on this earth,

like we were the only ones to share a secret.

The unveiled truths of a cheap honesty,

the last mirror to seize the real look

 of a thousand remodeled fake beauties. 

Photographer and words Arialee Miles