A roguish thought occurs every now and then; 
its words 
suffused between scarlet skies and 
singed grass, 
for it is both a wanderer in the woods  
of subconscious  
and a whisper we choose to ignore—
ignore until ignored it can be no more.  

Poets love to people watch; 
flirt with the idea of them in their hemisphere, 
with crumpets and cheese on the sidewalk, 
breathing slowly, breathing deliberately, 
romancing the void that exists—
this plug and play is more than meets the eye, 
is a black swan, 
in a pond full of common and white.

Swept into an otherworldly ether, I indulge 
the senses, 
write poems about a ribcage of roses 
in conflict with one filled with thorns. 
Fuck, it’s easier said than done, 
when the fog clears and reveals a fact we wish  
had remained hidden— excuse my French. 
The only question is, do we accept or deny? 

I adore the way people read me;  
knowing I laugh at the wind and tease the 
waves,
in a realm of what ifs and nots I am the sonnet  

that bites, I am Spring mud and crocus, 
I won’t lie, I like being a distraction. 
Their eyes contain a language I wish to learn, 
as though a firefly one chases in the dark; 
this everyday compulsion to tell others  
you are justified is like a mess under perfection. 
Don’t let it happen. 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Kal Gajoum Painting, Pinterest

“I was in love with everything, I wanted to look with love at the angry people
so that
their eyes would be forced to respond; and I wanted to bring gifts to
the envious and
tell them that I am worthless.” — Egon Schiele 🌷

Posted for Poetics: Playtime @dVerse Poets Pub