When Only Paper Can Save

The Henhouse

She comes every sunlit Sunday 

when the wind is superb 

and the money chimes.

He's there every span,

made a

contract with

the devil to earn rusted dimes.

Ambers

in his weary eyes 

are shattered when the rays blind 

him with stark rhymes.

The pebbled

pavement sings with 

each step that she takes, 

the sand wings are sublime.

Ripe country scenery,

great chalky house,

and an owner that worships war times.

He's working 

every day for a dream,

so is she;

but poverty crucifies at times. 

Him,

callow poet with a shadow of a slave; 

collecting chicken eggs

from various breeds.

Ameraucana, teal, 

Delaware, hazel, 

Polish, white;

hours and corn is what the hand feeds.

Him,

P.R. boy with bronze skin;

clearing the ladies bedsheets 

and plucking the weeds.

Calloused hands pick them 

up gently like a mother's kiss, 

then maids smack them 

to make sweets.

Him,

coconut curly haired niño; 

carries a busted up 

notebook to write everything that he bleeds.

On his break,

he sits under the same

cherry tree for her with a basket full of eggs,

ladies, 

and secrets.

She,

flourished philosopher with a soul of a whore;

white cotton dress and 

an umbrella to cover up

the pain.

Light reflects off of her skin 

like honey on a wooden table,

she walks to hell

to get her grain.

She,

A.F. girl with black orbs;

getting closer to purchased 

pleasure as the 

flowers fall and drain.

Boy watches her under the

aromas of odes 

and sonnets because they 

are connected by a chain.

She,

seasonal mrembo that brushes hair calmly; 

gazes cross,

ladies gossip in chirps,

and traded smiles crossover

to their domain.

How can twin flames

burn so bright without a single spoken syllable, 

is it the fact that both 

eat spoiled grain?

She keeps her proud walk,

but her poor self; 

He receives motion,

but weeps with written words.

Frail man that abuses power 

welcomes her 

with gold infested hands 

as the sound records.

The pen

moves gracefully and 

the bed screams in disappointment; 

the artistry cries herbs.

Time stops,

he puts the basket with a note next to the fence 

and gets back to work; 

she sweats orchards.

Lovely ladies 

stretch their wings on mellow

grass as the angle seems to pass;

her downcast smile

inflames with hurts.

Another gift,

he's covered in dirt and she in sin, 

they don't look at each other again;

she sees

the piece of paper and rips it up,

they can only love in lost

ballads.

A mrembo and a niño 

of the earth can

lose their innocence to life, 

but they can never lose their passion 

to bastards.