THE BLAHS

Under the pergola we stood one last time.
In a flash our scent and secret froze. Blue
matches my mood, boa leaves me blank. I
know, noon will register another nightmare.
Percipience is a pain, there is ache in augural hungers. A yeasayer is in an erroneous mode. To not be in touch with the truth is a faulty construct. But if it works for you, who am I to stall your sessions?