fifteen cinnamon sticks to a grain of vanilla and
a couple specks of dust on spectacles; just for good measure.
the stage directions are in your hands,
something wrong with the way the words are swirling,
take a turn toward the left side of sane, charred
for all the technically correct reasons.
leather cords and red tablecloths,
oh, how we spiral into the world:
pretty girls dancing around dandelion stems.
we are paint thrown at dead walls, fumes
in the factories on the horizon, we are the straw
hats and the crazed smiles on boys lying quiet in the alleyway.
fifteen cinnamon sticks to five grams of vanilla,
and a look from the gutter birds just for good measure,
singing their do-re-mi's for tourist bread and borne away
by ill winds and ancient fingertips,
up for heaven and toward the left side for lamplight,
foreign limbs moving, coiling, rattlesnake music
folding into itself for reasons unknown.
blindfolded love is not the reason you stick around,
you aren't even sure of why you're frowned upon.
fifteen cinnamon sticks to a half pound of vanilla,
and a sneer from the woman in purple; just for good measure.
there is a small bookshop around the corner, won't you join me,
won't you come into charcoal walls and find yourself some neutral territory to grasp at?
doesn't it seem strange that fifteen cinnamon sticks can buy you life?
doesn't it seem strange that the world can be forced away
for a second or two, shoved black and blue under the carpet?
YOU ARE READING
Rough Diamonds
Poetrya collection of thoughts, depicting broken locks and the colours of loss. possibly some of my favourite poems that i've ever written. (p.s this will replace birthright because i'm unhappy with birthright at this point. birthright will still be aroun...
