'ORANGE'.

Came up because of a couple of things. A curious analogy and 'Cello Song'. The first has to do with the painful thought that the independent is best when left alone, although it's her company I'm bound to strive for. Something I tagged immediately to a girl with a basket of oranges, who wouldn't accept my help or the fallen orange offered, letting what she left to stay left behind. Second's the immense rush of orange patterns visualized as Nick Drake kisses his 'Cello Song' to life. But it's predominantly a contest on 'shade' that I made up in mind, myself. Something 'she' is oblivious about.

"A cloud of thought
its stalk to poke,
a pulp descent in mind, provoked;
enchanted hum of 'Cello Song',
in worldliness
of world beyond;
a slither down the air, amused,
its wither render gases bruised,
of flaming mistress -
her one-eyed stare,
and eye-patch time of sibling pairs;
atrocities of feudal kind,
in work of wonder, of art, defied;
and excrement
and the find of fall,
and treachery, and truth
but most of all
the auburn maiden, her basket full,
her weight in whole in dangle, would;
the poet's eyes
in eloquence, trace,
in frailty, her shirk of grace,
and of rescue aimed at fallen fruit,
in heart despair,
her mind intrudes;
his final flash of fondest smile,
for scarlet stained,
her eyes beguiled..."

I don't think I did justice, or at least that hasn't found its way to me yet: A sense of being engulfed by myself. If it does, I'd live with it. If it doesn't, I won't say it aloud. Fifth in line to 'Little Rhymes', a burp to spike the spark of mind.