June bugs, sparkling their way up to the acrylic chapel morphing into the hands of an ivy's game of roshambo.
June bugs, marching to the classrooms to be painted in syrup, rolled up in dysprosium pigment.
Halls shrouded in clouds of yellow chalk that are thrown into a whirlwind of clapping, beating feet.
Breathed out from otherwise clear, pounding throats.
This- a castle of cacophony above the village of orange blossoms floating in cups of cream steeples.
There are strings with humming lips parted at my throat, whispering at the helix of my ear.
Playing with vibrato
sounds like like kitten's tail. Melody dipping her paws into baby blue.
And poetry, an act that our dilated pupils project onto a canvas of satin silk.
Here I am- in a feast hall turned theater. Serving wishing well water and moon mana.
There are high ceilings in my bedroom for faeries to converge and to spin.
I, begging their breeze to speak rhymes to my parchment.
I, preferring the eucalyptus seances flourishing outside. Sprawled on blankets in fields of your stop motion minds.
And there, in your summer solstice hands, is a world of sundress
tanline
bliss.
Velvet curtains veiling the world, and cigarette smoke wafts into my room in place of rhythmic breeze.
The faeries on my ceiling sparkle, dim, and drift to sleep.
Those silken screens we so carefully weave over sinks every morning as a war ritual, aren't tearing yet; But their thread count is decreasing
I see far more wilderness in a day than my own wild mind wishes to memorize.
YOU ARE READING
More Ryhme des mots
PoetryThe reckless optimist creates sunbeams With Archimedes death rays That they do believe will result in lovely sunsets. (And most everybody burnt to a crisp is not in favor of this method.)
