written in the delible ink
of a honeysuckles blood.
Promises parading on tiptoes
their muffled footfalls
affixed to strands of memory
tho’ no little feat to hear,
remain soothing when recognized.
Unlike a scarf
held aloft on an exhalation,
a love preserved of hope
long after the simmer
has left the pot.
It took sixty sprites in all
to drag, the bright red cloak
the babe’d been swaddled in.
Another twenty or so to tow the winch
and lift the bab into the wagon.
Forty pixies gingerly unwrapped
the bab, so all the fae could see,
Sweet lyric lips, into the fog emit-
soft breaths, deep and soothing-
in the shape of a sleeping dragon.
regurgitated bits of long masticated memories your every imperfection stained sweet upon my lips drunk on dis-stilled spirits the tang of demons on my tongue by my own breathe I am left inebriate as we, I sup upon.
Barry, a fellow poet and otherworldly kindred spirit, has written a poem entitled, Not Like That, But Deeper Still that wrenched from me such emotion I could answer it only with poetry.
Though I find the culmination of these words sorely lacking, I dare not devote anymore time to these memories for surely to do so would be my downfall…
Rhetorical “I love you’s”- batted back and forth like flies squandered sex replaces passion satin bed sheets stained with lies. Caustic conversations, peppered black with loathings mold, through laser whitened smiles veneering loveless, store bought souls.. A marriage of constituents, fed on debt devoured dreams youthful longings long succumbed, to god money’s siren screams… Credit cards, and joint accounts the bones on which they feed- A living breathing sacrifice, to avarice and greed…