Crinkling glittery stars slip through ruby ringed fingers pulsing delight,
despite the trite memories expanding and seething
beneath her ashen window sill
Little repose in veils sliding over swollen skulls,
dripping pinpricks on a hilt charged to the ground
in sunsets garbling domain where geraniums weakly fitter
their lost causes, repenting solitary minds
washed with milky vibrant being
then stifled in controlled compliance.

Pull a timorous call of squawking ravens
thrusting forth over the skyscrapers
and the colors punching through
the sky bleeding fresh and dripping from the clouds
A teacup cracks and this could mean
an amorous inclination of fate.

There could be simpler ways of being
and expressing our eventual desire
necessitating romance
but the dust on the roses
and the question of time
and the sighs of repentant mongrels
in pews and school desks
and the self righteously trotting throngs
past a candy land where oranges and berries
are crystallized in a blissful fainting repose
where threat coos in a funny hat and calls out
a plea to return to the present.
But let us sink down the drain in the drench of amber light
falling like Dial soap and spry ticks of cricket’s musings of triumphant tales where art and meaning are not marginalized luxuries being cried out for in vain. For there are passing holidays on a calendar, supposed glee, oh me and my wild abounding mind sparking twisting canals of auburn silk shredded into the bleak drain where memories go and passing moments can be rendered significant.
You knew all along something would thrust them down
and we would cease to see the colored sparks among the ashes.