Close my eyes too tightly,
Like an
Overcautious man
Closes his new lipstick colored engine;
Kissing it twice to ensure divine safety.
Stained with love and yet it is merely a smudge;
A pool of berries off the bush,
Squished between webbings of the pale girl,
Giggling with her hair coiled tight in
Golden vines of eternity.
It is no sign of love,
Or depiction of passion,
But a shell to wash away with the tides that
Fly under the wings of the eagle,
A force coexistent with the wind,
Moving the sailboat
To the new world;
Round and not flat,
Unlike the amber horizon in its persuasive lie.
Yet in the old man’s alternate state of time,
Eyes veil themselves behind vibrant, intoxicating hues;
The illusion.
Through the charcoal and ash of painted blinds,
Stinging venom engulfs like the rip tide.
Which does pull me under to the inevitable death.
Can my anchored legs find the magic to
Escape the sadistic scorpion within my skull?
Or,
Should the emptying of sorrow in each elongated breath,
Explain perfectly,
In an eloquent dance of fairies and dust,
That an eye, at times,
Simply should not see.
All rights to this poem belong to the author.
