You are strings of pearls that cross thresholds between worlds
Little beads of ecstasy threaded through debris
You’re a smile in the morning when the sun is fresh and bright
You are scratches in the dark when the day has turned to night

Lustrous but also lackluster
We are gems yet salvaged
Formed inside of a shelled world

Waves waning and whining
Sailors nauseated on our waters
Drifting towards an aggrandized land
Where they might find us oysters in the sand

They'll tear them open,
In search of what only we bear
Camouflaged amongst the cultured,
Or even those with nothing there

Darling,
We are wild,
Yes we are rare
Open up to me,
We've so many layers to share

Your metallic smile,
Your iridescent articulation
Everything happened so naturally
A miracle to be in the same location

They won't crack us,
For our muscles will defend
Our valuable and vulnerable interior
From the worlds vinegary intent

There are some things
that are poetry without ink.
Such as a sunrise and sunset,
with amber rhymes of light.
Also, a flowers gentle growing,
as it blooms vibrant vocabulary.
Then there is you,
with flowing cherry wood for hair,
and pearls for eyes.
For you there is no description,
only the whisper of beauty,
written between the lines of poetry
etched in my heart for you.

Your eyes are pearls,
washed with sweet sea-foam
from sugar-water seas,
and cast upon velvet shores
of sterling sand.

Pearls

From afar I see beauty comparable to pearls
It shines brightly out in the open
But your clam like heart forever teases
Open and close...
Every time I approach
You shy away and remain tightly closed

Asking silly questions
About places I no longer live
And people that
Maybe should have stayed friends
Who really burned bridge

Both of us
No innocence here
Who really threw first stone

More questions that don't matter
Naked answers drained of endorphins
Let me be the honey sweet mulled wine
Take me to dinner with your Prada
White girl no *** pearly teeth

Telling me really
'All men are pigs anyways my darling'
Making me her plump little Sunday swine
'Shall I feed at thy trough'
Earns me a red cheek'd slap

Moths float out from behind
an opened, warped door.
I push my face into your clothes,
hung heavy like pearls
in an antique shop.
Stale and familiar,
the scent follows me
like a lost little bee.
It buzzes even after I leave.

Hopscotch down the hallway
to find dead crickets
in the bathtub.
Scuffed wallpaper camouflages
a cobweb. Metallic vines
curve around bursts of petals.
I’m certain you chose this pattern,
but I don't know.

Memories are few.
I fill in the holes with honey
and arrowheads.
Indian feathers and
an old brooch.
Piles of pie.
Did you love to bake pie?

Games of bridge
on that old, scratched table top
with a musty deck of Bicycle cards.
Each deck a photo album
of your face.

Your raisined face.
I remember holding it in my hands.
“This aint a walk for old womans.”
And out the door I go.
Empty handed and independent.

You weave your stories like the night,
stringing the moon with the stars;
the finest of pristine pearls,
threaded by twilight.

Weaving the finest Varanasi silk
with life as your celestial loom;
laying down gold- and silver-threaded brocade,
dormant gardens burst in bloom.

Your pen is the philosopher’s stone
turning lead hearts into gold;
manipulating structure in stunning stanzas,
inscribing on hearts in italics and bold.

Nodding in acquiescence
the sages of the ages,
will then add your magnum opus
to their papyraceous pages.