Triptych

*image found HERE

Triptych

The legions of their white hands
twist into trumpets,
the promiscuous little sun
pumps like speckled
soliloquies;
the beheaded dandelion
can rest between two fingers
as though a crown of waking
plagues the city boys
and the metro
sews his own hunger shut
by connecting the dots
of where we lay the body;
your vomited light
against the blood-borne Spring.

*

From every opened window
you breathe into me
as though you are peeling a mandarin;
The hummingbirds hail
for my rite of passage
and the clouds are drooling.
My death is a poster cutout
of sci – fi communism;
I am death, in a pink, knit sweater
and hair in a bun,
The wheat lashes the back of a cricket,
the hands of a seamstress
train the epicenter;
the sea of you
blows a hymn out of me.

*
In the aftermath of the soire
the vastness is derobed
into seeping pearls,
the song elopes
to the forest
and my sorrow, entertained
in the church of your unrest;
the rush of your plummet
dilutes the angelic hunger
into the humming of a gramophone
and violets
and the day slapped on your cheekbones
is guilty of innocence,
of sandalwood and wild roses;
of my name.

*For NaPo day 8. Was not really finding the prompts from previous day to be tickling my inspirational fancy, but figured it should not stop me from writing.

~ by Oloriel on April 8, 2019.