Writing love poems in the back of my step-mothers agenda

*image found HERE

Writing love poems in the back of my step-mothers agenda

Dim kitchen lights
seep out
to explore the world
while it still exists;
the leaves of the garden trees
are wearing the streetlights
like wedding dresses:
(and I confess.)

In the dark blue above
one could dip a finger
and stir;
connect the stars like dots,
watch the lovemaking
perturb
the colour of the sky
into sarcophagus dust,
like fingers
tearing
through marshmallow houses
(if I must.)

engulfing softly
all the mingling
down bellow
where one could,
quietly and with precision
drag a finger
across it all
and connect the dots
like they were stars.
(if you insist!)

June quenches its thirst
pinching the blood warm
and hurrying the winds
to spreading rumours
over and under plump, stretched out lips;
teeth gnashing through
maraschino cherries
(would you please?)
and let it run its course
like hunger never does:

the birds are chirping without pause,
like every hour is godly,
the river is a chatter of saints;
it fumbles through the darkness
(even if it kills?)
putting the moonlight
through the fibers
of a lonely, whispered whistle.
(even if it heals?)

The aftermath of a storm
drizzled over the chest
like an exhausted whore, finally sleeping;
(Keep it.)
atop a roof
a murder of crows
sifts through its haul
and shares evenly,
pallets like scaffolding
of Hallelujahs
with no ifs nor buts
(for me?)

and countless eyes of countless thieves
that yet remain unwoken
is leaking burning oceans
through a thousand
paper-cuts
and we are carried around
like tokens.
(do as you please!)

The clocks could
any minute
peel away
and words breathe out
dandelion seeds:
gray-golden and true
like messages rolled
in tops of the mornings
or in boredom of making sonnets,
(please do it with me!)
the lilies of valleys
like lilac bonnets
of a tea-time dress –
(I think I will want you.)
the bones of glue
dripping down the highway;
stick atop the t-shirts
hanging over laundry wires
like a dream.
(I think you will want me.)

You –
walking about,
all dressed up
in the finest of my bedroom eyes –
one look
would have me
penniless, in rags,
peddling rainwater across the Styx,
(No turning around!)
kayaking through holographic clouds
until I can touch
the Eden of your thoughts
and blurt out over
flower scented letters
like ink
drools over the edges
of the night
into a chorus of boems;
(404. Eurydice not found.)
Crickets are reading poems
the grass is woven
mellow green
(I, very well crushed into.)

I am tired
of pushing
my heart
back in.

~ by Oloriel on June 28, 2020.