The first chip she touches is geometric red
Not like a rose, but sturdy brick—
A pixellated fire.
It is quiet nights and marshmallows
And flame-lit eyes.
The second chip, cardinal-purple:
Bouquets on doorsteps
Knitted beanies—
A crown to me
Tú eres mi reina.
Then grey, floral etchings obscured by the tilt
Silver? Not quite.
Petals wither into the night
Tarnished beyond repair
Until you hold it to the light
She settles on white with floral lace
A wedding gown despite the rain
A wedding gown, a flowing train
Tú eres mi reina—
Then the dream shatters
As she walks on.
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A/N: I was going through old-ish poems in the dark recesses of my computer, and I found this.
YOU ARE READING
Anarchy
PoésieAnarchy. A swirl of topics: emotions, allusions to history, social issues... And somewhere in the maelstrom comes forth rhymes and prose. Note: If you can't be bothered to read all the poems (quite understandably), I've starred the better ones.
