Strange Beings: The wind blows forcibly. The leaves scratch and pierce the crowning night, their underbellies a thousand infantile faces: shrill― mourning in fate, in the disengaging and rearranging of a heart.
Funeral In A Matchbox: Burying a body with leaded glass wings, the burning gas of a star’s inferno mirrored in flightless migration.
Procession: Wrought cemetery gates, green muddy hills, runoff, and blood. Roots grappling the earth, lightning breaking and bruising bark, weathered ribbon ghosts fraying elegies over numb cherubin lips.
Funeral Rites: Risen in the moonlight and sacrificed as an offering to clock-working eyes― naked, burning, forging. Blood runs down my legs, as a stag’s eight points shatter and gore my pelvis― Death is morning glories vining, unwinding, wringing.
Resurrection: Maggots, earthworms, and insects alike, dismantling ruins, pollinators seeding pheromones― a soaking rain, an arid sun cycle. The birds that eat of their flesh, sing my essence― pollinators to petaled heads― bees brewing honey that taste of me― trees fruiting a nectar of me, that trickles down your chin with each insatiable bite― your tongue painting for your hands and mind’s eye― what my soul looks like.
E.A. O'Connell
E.A. O'Connell
No comments:
Post a Comment