The violet shadows dancing
on the water are simply a mirage.
Spring is ending, a breath lost.
Summer boils under the surface,
cracking earth and dying leaves.
Summer skins us alive.
we are sparse kindle,
waiting to be set afire.
The storms inside us
will fade with the drought.
Summer is screeching
through the ivory sunrise
and parched squash.
Desert days, bent backs, & sweat stains.
Baby birds crawling out of their nests,
smashed on the sidewalk,
raw and covered with ants.
Spring is a whisper now.
The flowers are forgetting
that the sky is their home,
slipping into the cage of dirt,
wilting, wilting, wilting.
Sunburns, the kisses of Summer,
are marking prisoners.
This is the closest to Hell
the young lambs will ever get.
This is the Devil's season.
YOU ARE READING
mercurial
Poetrymercurial (adj.) 1. (of a person) subject to sudden or unpredictable changes of mood or mind. 2. of or containing the element mercury, a poisonous element. This is an ongoing poetry collection expressing both the beauty and torment of life.
