Poetry Collection.

"Honey Child."

————————

So amusing is the boy in his juvenile age,
that he imagined within himself
veins flowing with golden ambrosia—
the sickly sweet of honey spiced with spindled rosemary—
and upon his skin the knuckles of lotus petals—
fingers of blissful sway within the breeze
and a godly touch upon himself
in bathing, statued sun.

So foolish is he,
his tongue a piercing ode,
every word precisely chosen and intricately woven into the flesh of his scroll.
Closely held to his hallow chest is the hollow complexion of his dear paper,
his royal eyes a flutter in the heavensphere—
a compass for the covetous,
the penetrating hawkeyes.

He has always read so little,
yet is keen to speak of Shakespeare, Neruda, Poe, Dickinson, Oliver, and Hughes
with charming familiarity
and serpentine expertise.
Yes, in his crown he downs the vineyard wines
and sucks the olive branches.
Between the thorns he dances planets with the gods
and speaks universes with the poets.

Though, below his honey skin does the clotted blood churn,
for he knows, always,
that he is just a child.

————————

(June 12th, 2024.)