*image found HERE


The legions of their white hands
twist into trumpets,
the promiscuous little sun
pumps like speckled
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.

8 Responses to “Triptych”

  1. An excellent ride.

  2. You visited my site and left a nice comment on my post “Jammin’ In A Parallel Universe”. Thank you! Now my link has been removed as spam? Has ths ever happened to you?

  3. Beautiful.

  4. Wonderful! You really have a way with words. x

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