m'i's'a'p'o's't'r'o'p'h'e's
by @noand-hegask
Do not talk of the honey I pickled in your light bulbs
They do not have the map to help us reach The Alps
Just talk of the hungry flower growing on my lungs
At least they have the address to the hut on my palms
That’s drawn by the little girl who feasted on the chalks
The butterflies long ago planted along in their pulse.
Quick,
Incinerate the 1800s post-mortem portraits
In black light's faked midnight perfumes
For you are my forlorn apostrophe high on gas
That might ask questions while telling us your tales
Or reluctantly whisper damned things about Laqus
Who is wasting us to the wistful hell flowers.