.
Pillars of sand start shifting,
the loving spoonful curdles tourmaline,
and the moon will be as blood,
darker than the inside of night.
Resonance as Death's hourglass screams
where a blade slices through flesh.
Angels are not supposed to have ******
on clouds of orange musk.

Poems fall like mountain rain,
excellent in obscurity, rich primal green,
reflecting olive trees in starlight,
glancing twice with Capricious intent.
A butterflies wings kiss the breeze,
Free. Serene. Long ago and far away.
In a circle of hearse black tulips
I lay down my shattered heart to die.


© Pagan Paul (16/02/17)