Impressionism is my memory of thee
Impressionism is my memory of thee
as I sketch a dream over thy chin—
how can a man adore thee enough
while all the dots, words had been thine?
Yet alone I feel not, so much as a glimpse of light
shalt imprint the negative of minds,
an enduring fire last the darkness-ness of nights
longing for the first dawn to ignite—
O, might I just add to thy face an accent
if not a verse, if not a stanza, a sentence
or a punctuation I learnt. May then, eyes wilt
move, linger, ponder who hath left a sigh here
that smells the footprints of a lost poet at large?
Neo-impressionism hence is cast by thee.
Impressionism is my memory of thee
as I sketch a dream over thy chin—
how can a man adore thee enough
while all the dots, words had been thine?
Yet alone I feel not, so much as a glimpse of light
shalt imprint the negative of minds,
an enduring fire last the darkness-ness of nights
longing for the first dawn to ignite—
O, might I just add to thy face an accent
if not a verse, if not a stanza, a sentence
or a punctuation I learnt. May then, eyes wilt
move, linger, ponder who hath left a sigh here
that smells the footprints of a lost poet at large?
Neo-impressionism hence is cast by thee.