But I have lost
my
touch under
these orchids which glimpse
the tale of
each star that fires against the
wrath
of a thousand martyrs,
whilst our glass of
grape juice called earth
is
flooded by the presence
of
celestial
caprices
that glimpse each
falling syllable into
a
cluster
of
golden dandelions
like
the garden of
heaven
wherein
the doors are open to
all who
treads the path of
those same martyrs
that
have succumbed to
the candescence
of the beyond, like
lobelia blue
flowers
which bloom
against the vision
of the tempest,
and collapse
against the murky waters
in which
many people
are drowning,
to end up
in the embrace of this spherical
liquefaction like the
conversion of
a
dynasty so sublime
in
its stupor,
that
the globes
look on with a
translucent
apparatus
so like
those pterodactyl
that falls under
the wrath of
this
T-rex
in the archaic museum of
my thoughts,
so welcome
to my
battlefield and-
this is the end.
YOU ARE READING
an abstract limn
Poésie❝ but this time i will not be lifted from the realms of this catastrophe, this time i will be dipped into the honeyed lox of this saccharine thought; drowning in the depths of the wilted tulips that have not ever to sprout. look at these alstroemeri...
