She was made of ringlets of laughters,
made of the scent of an apple orchard.
She was the quiet ripples of endless summers nights,
and her dress was drenched in sweet wine.
Purple poured into drunken purple.
She was made of all good things
that slipped through my fingers.
And I was made to love no one
At the edge of an atlas,
by the border of desert cactus,
stands the lonely tavern.
An unhinged door, moth-eaten lanterns,
and chock-full of dirty feathers.
The sky is a piece of dry cloth.
You move through a generation
of peanut shells.
fossilized in amber lamplights,
The tavern’s usual patrons
travel from one end to another
in the hourglass’ desert, sifting
through god’s thinning fingers
between each dissipating hour.
The barkeep settles your tab,
five full tankards for five full lies.
There is no salvation for the dried-up souls,
only rum and gin and
for the the drunken crow.
With a pair of blotched wings,
it flies to the fevered moon, pale-faced,
bearing a glass coffin,
clear as vodka.
originally published on September 14th, 2015 on my old blog.
She practiced her love on every ugly toad,
casually tossing I-love-yous
into the gaping mouths
of those desperate souls.
With each rehearsed declaration, she felt a new sensation,
an unknown tenderness that she carefully learned,
treasured and saved
for the prince.
But those words, uttered too many times,
have slowly swelled up her tongue,
until it grew so prodigious
that she could not close her lips.
So she waited for her prince,
with a gaping mouth,
ugly and desperate,
completely ignored and detested
by her fellow toads.