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Powdered skin,
Brush strokes,
Go coat
those desperate pokes
The shakey nature
Of made up favors
So playful
And able
We are
To Make the devil
Weak in the knees
As he does me,
So what if you suffer
You are but a drop
In an endless sea
No one will notice
When you drop
And you bleed
Just a mixture of rage and pain in threw up when I felt too much and thought my chest was gonna implode.
we chased the sun
with a suitcase
full of nothing
until the sky grew big
and we became heavy
in our lust for life
the threads of our pockets
we traded for time
and scattered them
amongst the stars
until, gilded by gold
they fell down around us
like a precious rain
our minds were shattered then
into a billion pieces
constellations of thoughts
bright against the
dark arc of night
and, like vagabonds
we ran howling as we
coloured the land with
our kaleidoscopic hearts
enraptured by the great
deafening silence
of divinity
Lora Lee May 2017
In this tightly interwoven
tapestry of
           silks and cottons
softness upon stems
an intricately-*****
                     journey
manifesto of life
        I find myself in
patchwork landscapes
of ochre and
rust turning
           turquoise
earthern shades
of cumin and cardamom
cloves and coriander
piquant red of paprika
alighting the senses
My fingers reach out
to sift the powder
to crush
fragrant fronds
of fresh basil and oregano
upon the blueprint of tips
allow their scent
to permeate my skin
and infuse tissue
                of tongue and lips
and I seem to be
in this
           bustling marketplace
my blood afire like
dried ghost pepper
searing and brightening
all flavors
fenugreek and asafoetida
to soothe the ache
of emptiness
chervil and chive
to get juices flowing
I want to slit open
vanilla pods
get at the beans
revel in their essence
wear it all over me


In this realm of spice
and paradise
I am flying,
a magic carpet of dreams
unrolling before me
like an unfurled flag
of new existence
The sounds of hagglers,
fading in raw visons
of shiny apple colors
olives piled high
textures of smooth cherry
budded broccoli
of walnut wrinkles
aroma of guava

Music takes over
I am in a cloud of
oud and lute
syncopated tabla
bells and rumbling
taut skin drum beats
Or is that long low whir
simply my heart purring
to the cadence of
       freedom's call?

I only know
that in the whisk
of a second's split
I will savor the flight
and also the
                fall

— The End —