On her arm, the tower of Pisa bumps back and forth with her swollen sleeves.
On her back, standard holometabolous insect flutter flames it’s way heavenward.
Her thighs house songbirds, yellow, flightless—beauty is her.
A cobra draped around her neck; an olive branch psyching back, rearing it's head, infinite.
Her body is a shrine of shadowy ink.
Her cheeks have become temples.
I lie my faith in them alone.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
On her arm, the tower of Pisa bumps back and forth with her swollen sleeves.
On her back, standard holometabolous insect flutter flames it’s way heavenward.
Her thighs house songbirds, yellow, flightless—beauty is her.
A cobra draped around her neck; an olive branch psyching back, rearing it's head, infinite.
Her body is a shrine of shadowy ink.
Her cheeks have become temples.
I lie my faith in them alone.
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