That light is bright. It has no reason,
it simply is. The grass whispers under it,
blades devouring secrets. Its green has turned
dark in my absence. I see how it is.
I speak, but it has many tongues. It hisses,
like a length of tinsel sliding from a box.
The sounds are loud. They simply are,
they simply are. They rattle in my head
like marbles in a jar. Like a plastic bag
of goldfish in your hand. Silently screaming.
Oh look, blob-blob. It’s like it’s trying
to talk to us. How sweet.
The grass. It prickles my feet like a
forgotten word at the back of your throat.
My throat. Our throat. It is a cruel thing,
it hurts.
I feel like a pincushion.
YOU ARE READING
Butterfly Ripples
PoesíaButterfly ripples through water and wind fluttering petals, whispering wings. Words swing 'round trees carried in a breeze of butterfly ripples so do as you please. But don't taunt their song of water and wind: to it they belong and so they will sin...
