Honey

The walls of your womb have begun

To draw my vermilion blood

And slit by the edge in your voice

Is my throat nipped in the bud

 

You must know surely and indeed

That I shrink from the rage I feel

Claw at you and cleave, demented,

My thin skin I took years to weave

 

I can hear my heart tick away

As we say what we have said before

And our fingers fuse around

The cool pin in its dark grenade core

 

A Single shadow blights the room

There are no locks on the door

I vanish and you dissolve

In our vitriolic amour

 

Exalted

“The Moon sings to me, and sends me glowing pillows carrying sugar-cube dreams for my heart.”

I proclaim to myself. Yet, what I see as unassailable actuality is, in fact,  merely an optative reverie.

Spread across the ominous sky- it’s colors never dark enough to be black, and never a shade even remotely as discernible as the most treacherous indigo- are the sprightly stars, amused at the austerity of their own mother fabric, the vast sky that has cradled them since time was an infant.

Starry Night Over the Rhone by Van Gogh.jpg

They know my dreams, and they know yours. Perhaps their delight arises from the knowledge that they’re a part of all those dreams, and the ones our minds spin into a gossamer cocoon of repose to screen ourselves from the overwhelming heat of the sun, right when it reigns over us diminutives.

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