"willowherb" poems
Life glows from the ashes,
Red and dead.
Rest assured I will not waste
My atoms. The sea
In which they swim is not
So fickle as life.
From the land Persephone is torn
Into the heat of hell-
But fire can serve a woman well.
In Spring she shoots forth
A million delicate souls.
Piercing
Through flames, the willowherb of this
Barren body will take seed,
Will flower.
In its own way beautifying
My scorched scars,
My cauterized heart.
The fatal lick of a poison dart
Will take only me,
My anatomy.
The tools remain,
They regain their power
And Persephone will rise through me.
I have seen it before,
This end feeds desire.
Life at its finest is paved with fire.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
I am but the flower
nigh the wild fox's den
I feel earthen worms
that crawl about
my sultry toes and then
they move the dirt for me
relaxing me
I stand *****
in wait for thee
I watch the *****
nurse her pups
and though she has quenched
my love before
I desire a name and
something more
I so desire the honey bee
without her I feel untended
much unlike the tended progeny
of neighbor mother mending me
though standing guard
I wait for thee
to call my name
and fall on me
to drone a tune
and dance on me
and rob of me
the toil of seed
for a wildflower
by another name
should thenceforth
be deemed
a ****
'til the
nomen
falls atop
mine pate as
favor of the
honeybee.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC