Her Frock and My Flower

She danced at my funeral
In White gown stained with red
And prayers poured through
Limestone lips
That prosaic charcoal charade.

She had a face
That was more mine than my own
When I wilted under blanket, soft
As a foam dripping molasses
Over tired thoughts undressing in nubile light
All purveyors to those gestures
Of that one forbidden rite
Which holds Sky in a bowl
The Earth in a spoon
An ocean in a raindrop
And all chaos in cocoon.

In my arms
Holding the hems of both horizon
Split open at the end
She was undented,
Pale fire; silver gardenia in twilight,
Her sinuous laughter
As dry sprigs clapping in the wind
Raising waves of surrender and unchanging void
Breaking over boulders
I shaped each night, with
Hammer on heart, in a vaccumed voice
So the vestal salt
Do not linger and stain
My guillotine hands
In culpable pain.

She tasted of water
Woven in my veins
With flesh as cotton, left open in the rain
The lake was on her lashes
A swan astride her sighs
And the colors of the world
In the white of her eyes
And then I, a pariah, stood waking in her palm
Having slept through tempests
To return in that calm
Where each drop of desire
Shone like crystal in a cave
Raisin buds flowering
Wave after wave
In that palpable dark
Through same souls set bare
Behind walls and their worshippers
Left unaware.

She danced at my funeral
In White gown stained with red
And prayers poured through
Limestone lips
That prosaic charcoal charade.

Author: TheHumanAnvil

I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.

7 thoughts on “Her Frock and My Flower”

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