Visitng Hours

What is this new motion?
A cold summer's breeze,
a mist slowly folding
giving way to a squeeze.
A warmth so unheard of,
a sorrow unknown,
yet racing boldly towards it
leaves you gasping for more.

What is this strange fragrance
that's entered your past?
A scent so familiar
blowing through you
unamassed.

And leaving your shivers,
your golden blue tears,
This ghost phases through you
as if it's own self can't adhere.
An emptiness growing,
as the chase still runs thin.
A dull blaze surrounding
where you thought color
was still allowed in.

The solid
blue-
gray
of
the ocean's own caste
swallows
nothing
besides
wicked hollow repast.

But you feed it,
with plenty,
As you have much to spare.
The hollowness,
your specialty,
still unknown for repairs.

But you've finally noticed,
The new motion and scent:
It's a frame from your childhood
that was forced, nearly bent.
A locked frame that won't open,
no visiting hours;
A picture with border
that still paints your desires.