Monday, April 6, 2020

Open the Ink Cartridge


pure lavender, Love—or sword-blades. There you sand,
screaming or seething or suspicious. We dye  
satin ears, where essence cried. We
insurrect, floating by driftwood. so much
luggage: we mourn ransom: you fly—such fallen
soul! we mystic reigns, to soar wounds, for love but
grieving ash! guide us softly, by yogic arc,
where fruit buds: we part pieces. whom
appreciates love, where fields ripen hours?
what features became pain, so sacrificial? it is us, Love:
longing, loving, or lusting. tell me
by mind with love—or tell me soul or sprite  
sullenness; for halls are iron, gates are walls or bleeding is living.
to shimmer with darkness. our core, so numbed!
our pain, our gnawing rain!

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