Activities of Andreas Vesna

PEACE AND PLIGHT.

For them, they aren't always bright,
The mornings.
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Words of sandpaper
Chilled like overcast cherry punch
Kiting perfection
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The cracking of the eggs have set in motion the meandering processes of delectable genesis, with their orange eyes filled with fiery embers of colour. However they are to be joined by an enveloping slew of sugar, as tasteful as the fruits from an edenic enclave in the jewels of the pacific. Then the rest of the ingredients trample in. Flour, baking powder and a sultry drizzle of butter, melted like dropped ice cream on warm summer concrete. Given a stir and a dollop of vanilla, with it's delicate notes of the tropics, and the emulsion disappears into the oven. Now comes the waiting game.
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A poet
Is a poet in his suit
Here or there, be it
He is the true poet
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Waiting anxiously with my skin dampened in the clammy grasp of my cotton fleece, yet blue pen and lead pencil calm as could ever be.

And now I turn to the enchanting voices of valour above. Their outstretching hands flare out like the grappling ivy outside my window.
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My quiver is empty and i cant seem to fire any right words
Between us is a gang of flames
Fire that isn't red or blue,
green furies perpetuated by all the unsaid, swollen intentions
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