A Walk In The Suburbs



I am explaining to my brother

The personality of every tree

Along the path.


My language is verbiage

Of every sapling

That ever grew from my grave.


Rotten woodlands

Sprouting in the teeth

Like clockwork.


When we are kings

Of this garden,

Leaves of oak

Upon our bodice,

Summery flashes of lightning

So young,

So early,


With our penumbra.


How do we

Feed on light

And shed stardust,

How do we

Glow against the midnight;

Our mother a disco ball

As we sway

Among lowly nightshades.


We seek to know

The mandragora’s drowse

In its own lick of poison,

What makes the birch

Love so stoic


Make love like a shivering rabbit

And shake before me

When my eyes are lain on it


As a seemingly suspended rustle

Like when hearing

Your lover whisper,


Who are you


Who am I?


~ by Oloriel on April 5, 2019.

2 Responses to “A Walk In The Suburbs”

  1. Love! My sister’s and mine mother is a disco ball too. 🙂

Tell me something

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Robert Hilles

Poet and Novelist

Bruised Rose Blossoms

Poet. Starscraper. Song whisperer. Niño de las estrellas.

Erwin Wensley

Fiction, thoughts and essays.

Pointless Overthinking

Understanding ourselves and the world we live in.



Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Clandestine tales cling to these forlorn ankles.

A Reading Writer

I write because I read. I read because I write.

The Bullet <3 Winston Smith

Music to burn Rome to

Ink the Lavender Skies

A place for the poetic explosions from my mind.

Rambling 'Riter

Musings of an Aspiring Poet

Serpent Box

A Journey

like mercury colliding...

...moments of unexpected clarity

non sequitur

acjc's writers

Jane Dougherty Writes

About fantastical places and other stuff

Manja Mexi Moving

And then I stop and sit and eat.

Constance Bourg

Poetry and Flash Fiction


| A. Riddell | 24 | writer, reviewer, critic, asshole |

%d bloggers like this: