This is a ridiculous night to die on, Poet.
Let us pick a dot from this palette sky,
paint the shrinking lake with it
and hope it turns magenta somethingneon Mikado smaragdine
to match the incongruous time of your sojourn.
No stranglescars
bruises slits
pupilchasms,
in fact, it had little semblance to a corpse but it did, positively, translate the callous cadence of death.
The flowers in the air, warmongers of spring that will depart-
clasping nocturnal tails, taking you along- are waiting for their nearing time.
But the good thing about your soul, poet, is that it truly is a poet's.
And such souls are beyond the threeplusone dimensions.
They linger, lightly littlely, even in the ashes
like phoenix eggs
to which I have the flame in my right hand,
the night-killer, the incubator and the dexterous
hope- that I can burn a phoenix out of your ashes.
~Ajay
7/10/18
