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littlebrush Jan 2016
For there she was.*
Upright, bliss.
Blooming petal,
do its wish.

What a day,  

sounds, sounds
and people,
she says.

Dalloway, her petals,
the ones she picked,

She breathes
air like silk.
Details, dresses,
Precious petal,
does not know.

And the patient,
the open palms,
wait for prayers–
prayers, perhaps.

What a day.

*Mrs. Dalloway said,
she would pick the flowers
(First and last line taken from *Mrs. Dalloway*).
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.

— The End —