Clouds

Clouds sparsely

scattered across

shades of blue

we call skies.

 

Rays relentlessly

radiating

outer shells

we call skin.

 

Leaving us breathless.

©

 

Summer Months

Growing up, in summer months

We would ride

wheelbarrows

across barrows

and potholes.

 

We would fall

o

f

f

the rugged metal

and then

c r a w l

back onto it.

 

We would run across fields

that took us farther

and farther

from the calls of our fathers

and mothers

before

c r a w l  i n g

back to them.

 

Growing up, in summer months

we were nonchalant

about the absence of

electricity

because we had our own eccentricity

 

flowing through veins

of simplicity and

naivety.

 

 

Growing up, in summer months

we would rise,

we would fall – then crawl,

we would run across fields.

 

We were nonchalant

;

I was nonchalant.

Because my own eccentricity

flowed t h r o u g h veins

of simplicity

and

naivety.

 

I miss that.

 

© Hudson Biko

via Daily Prompt: Simple

Miss

I

miss

you

too

;

I’ll never tell you that

Somethings

 

It’s fascinating how somethings

have the capability to

mean

so much

whilst

meaning

nothing at all.

 

© Hudson Biko

Nothings

A

day

descends

into

a

summation

of

nothings

;

calling it unproductivity.