He is a talking flower with lips
made of curving petals.
Begging to hold his hand - which is a lovely saturation of pollen - is my unknown sunset quietly falling over him.
I never knew I wanted so deeply to feel him, now there seems to exist a safety within my thoughts I never knew possible.
In a way that is purely fantasy,
he spins the world so fast I’ve fallen off it.
Even when he walks he dances,
allowing me to slowly rotate in the vortex of his spirit.
How could I ever show him...
How could I ever let him see,
how he is the sinking throat
of dawn blessing me with vision,
and the medicine of my now fading paranoia.
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 3:15 PM UTC
He is a talking flower with lips
made of curving petals.
Begging to hold his hand - which is a lovely saturation of pollen - is my unknown sunset quietly falling over him.
I never knew I wanted so deeply to feel him, now there seems to exist a safety within my thoughts I never knew possible.
In a way that is purely fantasy,
he spins the world so fast I’ve fallen off it.
Even when he walks he dances,
allowing me to slowly rotate in the vortex of his spirit.
How could I ever show him...
How could I ever let him see,
how he is the sinking throat
of dawn blessing me with vision,
and the medicine of my now fading paranoia.
Request permission to use this poem