The Dragonfly

The Dragonfly

Travelling the Terrace time late

Yet another moon-lit night

Creating self... Beyond,

On grey wall is thrown,

A tall-small fly form of Dragons...

Knocked by blowing breeze.

The wings like the shade,

Of ice.

Wore by eyes a burgundy shade.

Skinny bent legs, now deny

To support it.

Green Helmet of safety,

Proves futile on the back.

And a long tail, stepping down,

To that sharp sting,Harmless.

How would you wander in gardens.

I catching you, opposites sometimes.

How that buzz stole my attention.

To green, from that black board.

How you would irritate us,

Arriving in almost lost soccer game.

Or a story of dragons, those blues n pinks.

And greens fantasized toons!

Keats' pen at time walked,

"Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever!"

You bring me shadows,

Of the gone, Sweet 'Rose' Memories.