November, when fields are tinged with both right and wrong

When the night comes, they gather and speak as one
longing to touch
and feel with fingertips cold
as though to emphasize a point–
they fling the moon as an orange peel
into the fields every now and then.

Did the sourwood blush just now?
Did the wind just break in through the window?
I dare not wake, not lift my lashes lest I become a slave
to their rhythm,
their moans are gunfire that play on repeat.

There is something about the words that form
in the line of my mouth,
caffeinated tears that flow like November guilt,
these creatures come unbidden
silently admiring your language, your length and form.

I hear an incubus frantically pacing outside in the bushes
urging me to give in to lust,
I’ll come unguarded if you promise to destroy me
light my lips
in shades of scarlet and gold
as predictability is drowned by the bubbling of a stream–
keep me enticed
until the early morning, when shadows part and the world’s
bathed in light.
Can you feel the determination in my eyes?
Come now,
admit you are afraid.



Photo credits: Jolygram

Posted for Midweek Motif @ Poets United

Posted on ‘Open Link Night’ @ DVerse Pub