Born To Promenade Into The Stonewashed Abyss

I.

She inhabits

her dresses and dreams

close to the surface

like satin sleeves.

 

She sometimes speaks of suicide

but suspects she will remain

vibrant and oxygenated and alive.

 

In the magnified moment before she cries

glistening drops of amber perception

rain down from the warped evening sky.

 

As she submerges and sinks

into the swirling current of her mushrooming discontent

she strangles the gentle sputter of teardrops

just to capture the way the world’s scorched reflection

rises like heat from the desert of her eyes.

 

II.

As she unlocks the delicately ornamented

entrance to our beautifying love-kingdom

the precious metals of the gate and key

melt together into a cresting wave of molten desire.

 

Oh the sultry saunter

of a stalking heart,

the blissful premonition

of her luscious lips and

storm-calming face leaning in

to tend our garden of kisses.

 

As the mirror’s flowery countenance

flashes bits of bare skin in delightful fits,

a pinkish aura playfully prances

along the sensual line

of her buttoned up belly

before finally trickling down my optic nerves,

to send my heart stumbling.

 

III.

She says

together we

bulldoze her tears.

 

Together we surprise

like rows of war dead

reborn as ancient trees.

 

Together we rise nearer to the sun:

straining to reach the star-scraped skies

yet content to rearrange the legion wavelengths of light

into soothing bouquets that burst in colorful spurts

against the mile-high roots of our love.

 

IV.

She inhabits

her dresses and dreams

close to the surface

like satin sleeves.

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