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Edward Clyde Aug 2020
The lavender pie he swiped from the tables
gave way to many creating tall fables

they ran down the corridor, looking for more
giggling and romping until they were sore

running through the library and lush gardens proper
leaving behind nothing but messes to topper

he and his friends saw no end in sight
until one of the staff gave them a terrible fright

"you'll leave The Gem Hotel with nothing but haste
before I send for the constable to come and lambaste"

it seems peering eyes had thrown things awry
when the dishwasher had seen him pilfer the pie

they hid in a room, large and ornate
so large in fact, they could not berate
as the echoes of the mob could be heard from their gait
their fates to be held by a simple-something they ate

the friction was taught, so tight it could tear
until one of them noticed a phone behind a chair

"quickly, I have a plan" he said and rung the front desk
ring
"we bewail our actions, were nothing but pests"
"meet us out front and we'll put this to rest"
"How will we know this isn't a test to best?"
"I'll be in the window with no other guests"
clink

So he stood in the 2nd story window with defiant disruption
as the crowd who had gathered went into full bore eruption

cheers and wails a mixed bag of admiration
as rumors of the scamps had swirled from the situation

his friends slipped outside as he looked up at the sky
"All of this over a little purple pie?"

*jump
This is a poem built from a book I'm writing called lavender. The story takes place in a grand hotel and follows the misadventures of a motley crew.
Butch Decatoria Dec 2018
Birds of Paradise
Coral & floral gardens
The crew in your Life.
Vamika Sinha Jan 2016
She drank her coffee too
sweet
and drew herself
to the smell of new
pencil shavings,
like a pupil dilates in light,
telling itself to expand,
to drink up
more
and
more.

She fumbled
on old strands of her
self rising like mug steam
from poetry
she wrote only three months ago.
Wide-eyed,
reading "when
one leaves,
the past is a fetish"
in rounded, running letters
bubbling up over each other -
a gravy she found
herself constantly stirring.

And sunsets,
dashed with pink syrup,
are a passion
('passion' being her
'word' - a skin-colored tattoo,
a branded prayer, an incanted torch)
Sunsets.
Sour golden orange laced
with strawberry wine.
Bittersweet.
Passionate.

Her.

— The End —