Technicolour

Image found HERE

Technicolour

On the paintings
the girls they tiptoe
to strip down the silvers,
wider shins and waning
around their legs and arms;

the ravens caw;

the boys swallow the Sun,
pick it like snacks,
bejewel their veins
and sleep in its golden slit –
How unlikely is the myth
of my Nature and my Nurture,
clad,
in the bosom of a knot –
in the vertebrae,
nesting,
like an un-bitten
slice of an orange;
callous and white

the locking of eyes,
yours and mine:
someone’s easy bishop
with the queens baggage,
hunting riffle over his shoulder,
starless in his vessel – taken to g7,
our hearts bobbing in his sack like a holiday plan
discussed over hotdogs, mojitos,
over the blood and within the dream,
rocked like a boat and worn like a straw-hat,
full of paper strips,
bearing our childish names for everythings,

the dead tree reminders
are the diction
in our necks –
my thoughts of you like will-o-wisp,
your thoughts of me blameless nostalgia
sealed with a touch,
a kiss,
a holding.

The brushing off the hair
from your face to
make space for sunlight;
the disarming of my clenched teeth
for the moonlight to cope

raw

our loves,
like our deities,
leisuring on top of emerald fields
donning the paintings;
are fiction,
yet you and I
are real,

archaic.

*Written for the Wordle at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

~ by Oloriel on July 19, 2022.