T. S.

*image found HERE

T. S .

a golden evening
in a light blue gown
is waltzing in
as someone is
practicing their piano lessons;
each stroke stabbing away like melancholia
through the wind
that,
in a stupor,
drops notes of perfumes
down the lazy street;

used to:
study the scales like arpeggios
and write them skin-down
so i don’t forget
how love always wears red
to the liminal ball of scandal.

a sparrow is showing
his open mouth to my tallest begonia;
antennae sunbathe
in their duvets of radio signal,
the trees like scalds
in their respite
beneath which crows
discuss with doves
about tear-gas canisters
and mothers are collecting their children
one by one;

used to:
salt all my wounds
like they were an entree;
periwinkles of dysfunction
arranged in circles
and on plates,
like art,
dividing my scars to civilizations
propping their towers
through the wilds of all the seas
their pockets full of dust;
vandals.

seeking refuge in the shadows,
the mimicry of distant
rolling tires
plunges itself across newly-lit
neon signs
of barbecue places;
coffee is being brewed,
lovers counting down softly
towards ungluing of their lips;
the piano lesson over
and streetlights
disrobing their buzz
over cobwebs
at balcony corners:

the coroner has my heart
and is preparing to bag it,
turn it over;
while it hums like a songbird –
gritty, and ran-over
like an omen
to all future larks,
yelping for the dark;
the truest dark of darkness,
while I just try to do my part
in the waste disposal business.

~ by Oloriel on July 9, 2020.