We are these days happy with a new door
A mauve hue on baths, while on our song,
With shower flowering on our cool backs
Streaming as if from rock skirted by trees
Its vapors swirling like the winter breath.
The song is under breath, in some mutter.
The vapors are a glass that hides a smoke
Our rather banal faces, in jejune laughter.
We are, in fact, searching our metaphors,
Upbeat about our recent turns of phrase.