If the clouds could whisper, upon thy cheek.
Etched memories of time reflect a rose tinted glare.
Shallow thought do quiver,
when storms brew with fear.
Chaos juggles north.
The mind glides east.
Voices heard, are twisted vines.
Restraining.
Restricting.
The third eye weeps.
These astral planes-
plead to be seen.
Two hundred plus days-
Melbourne has been separated.
Two hundred plus days.
Over half a year-
longing-
to be reunited.
Over half a year-
Saint Paul’s cathedral bells-
have sung a lonesome hymm-
Echoing empty streets.
Under the clocks of Flinders Street Station-
a shadowless shell of what was.
Two-hundred plus days-
Unable to hug our friends and family-
to comfort them-
To comfort us.
Two-hundred plus days-
and counting-
always counting.
We are suffering.
Shimmering Summer-
Dazed delights, dreams deliver.
Fruitful fantasy.
