and I spent
to make a
of you in a
I made this
but I lay
it on your
I'm sorry, honey
You are like a soul,
that died, but never moved on,
left to linger in my doorway,
like a past season Christmas wreath,
that just never went away,
only because it knew, I enjoy it's company.
And vodka tonics
Age brought, silent sorrows
I wept them-slowly
I could be-
A demon cleansing wreaths
Of teeth and all
You see are leaves.
Petals grow on my skin
Talking venoms and frog-like sin
Yet people are hearing hymns,
Though my wrists are just over
Theres blankness and hollows.
Skirt so yellow and bright
Eyes blue and wide,
with lips pursed right.
“Where is your joy,” she sighs?
Cotton shows years of wear
still flows yellow, and bright.
Her lean body craves to share
him hard and yielding tonight.
After she threw the bridal wreath
their joy spilled like carpenter’s glue.
No longer did they sample from beneath
yellow skirt and sweater taut and blue.
Her scent is a flower named dangerous,
so he struggles, pulls away; all the while
wanting his graying head to rest
upon her breast and relish the joy in her smile.
I come floating to you Mother, dead on the river, body bullet ridden: this is how God reaps His harvest of faith.
See, those columns that support the sky now, carried once the roof of our temple. The fire burning the pyres now carried oblations to our ideals; But we face a jealous God consuming in wrath.
Here I come, un-wreathed, unsung, wet in the tears of the skies, skin carrying scars of resistance, eyes open to the tyranny of faith.
Clutch my hands, let me feel the love that birthed me, one last time before my Spirit moves onward and beyond to the worlds of light.