We own a pond;
mottled bluebottle,
flecked in freckles
when the sunlight
skims the surface
between the moss.

I dip a finger inside
and stir. A nebula
swills, swirling like
a whisk of spilt oil
from a water spot
sometimes found
underneath a car.

My fist plunges in,
embalming a gulp;
moss bandages
around the orb that,
withdrawing in drips,
I see a new world
set alight upon it.

Painted glass windows, sequined tapestries
Rainbow coloured dreams drowned, in
Monochrome miseries.

The women wait and weep, a phalanx overcome by grief
Squinting through their candle-light visions,
Understood by misunderstood legions.

Fastigium Ataxia,
She cries in pain,
Rotating consciousness through the colourless rain.

A patina of grief wailed above the room as
The woman let out her final cry,
A martyr in their eyes.

Skinship visible through lonely cracks in subfusc walls
The infamous neighborhood remained vacant that night
The family lost a member that night.

A paegn concerto,
(Someone lost a shoe)
The women hung their heads in grief
(Somewhere bloomed a new leaf).

Stepping on the corpses of all you've known
trekking through the field of bones
the sirens sing, green angels with broken wings
like a  desolate future, in need of suture
I see a patina on everything, rustic brains
you can always find some sign of life
for there is always life within something
rose still exist among the filth and ****
there will always be beauty in the lies
and in the truths that flow through our mouths