Xanadu
 

Tides swayin’ slowly above the twinkling night sky. The serenity of the moon lit atmosphere fills me— illuminating the flecks of diamonds embedded in my hair. My pale skin and cyanotic veins glow. Midnight shines like a frozen glacier dancin’ with the lights, revealing the tear drops streaming down my face— I am a shattered vase. Typical bruises painted on my skin like Starry Night. Yet I blossom under the lunar glare, a translucent vessel exposed, just as petals who bloom

The butter on your morning toast. Honey in your tea. Fuzzy reflections of a candle. A type two ticonderoga pencil. The discoloration of an old books’ pages. Sunlight dancing through the trees. Hearts of daises. The lines you don’t dare cross on long winding roads. Unpredictable, confusing, Warm and sweet. I am a girl, But on these pages, I am more. I am sunlight. I am a flame. I am comfort. And apparently– Butter on toast.

--Dawns violet edges Elizabeth Taylor's Cleopatra and the deep purple robes of Caesar, Roman indeed of Roman blood, sweet blood of sanity drained in a bacchanal. The bruises the morning after. With the wilted violets and lavender of Sappho take the flowers of Ophelia and kiss her frost-bitten lips. Decadent plums and grapes, not half as sweet. Fleeting glow of lightning and ecstatic acid club lights, but only the Light of Truth shines through a cut amethyst, icon of calm, t

Sometimes the foam regurgitated by the crashing waves. And others, the soft tear stained pages of a beloved novel. I am the chipped coffee mug, the kneeling woman’s veil, the polaroid film. The solid lines on the edge of the road, Or the untouched peaks of the Great Smoky Mountains in January. I am the charging cable supplying life. Yet also the tangled headphones that I haven’t touched since that song made me cry. When I’m regretful I am the used tissue at my brother’s wed

A pearl hiding in the deep depths of the ocean, with seashells being washed ashore. Meanwhile, swans sail silently across the surface. And daisy petals delicately dance— with no blizzard in sight. A candle is lit as I watch the flurries fall from my window. The warm wax under the flame slowly melts downwards while I lay under my lace trimmed blanket. Hunger waves over me, craving vanilla cupcakes with sweet vanilla frosting swirled on top. Later, my notebook waits for my th

Her legs were like roses on a pull-out flower bed, she bloomed when opened but when closed, she’d be dead. Her voice was a river, laughter bubbling like a steam, and roaring like a current every time I heard her scream. Her sweet nothing whispers drifted like trash in the city wind, text messages read like letters from a sinner to the sinned. I felt a connection, but her hair was cable wire, love was a game of telephone, but I was playing with a liar. But all the world’s a st

When I die the bugs may not taste me at all. If they do, they may taste the honey of my words; sweet and light to ensure I won't be disliked. If they travel farther, up to my mind or down my throat, they may choke on all the harsh words left unsaid. Down to my lungs they’ll taste the sweetness of roses, rich musk of jasmine, and the creamy underlying spice of lilies. Lower to my stomach they’ll find it hollow— empty from the need to look like eve

From leaves of grass, to dappled canopy. A natural breath lush as a hummingbird’s sheen. The sweet tang of starfruit on sticky, tinged tongues, dripping from mint-freshened mouths. I’ll be here in the sky when rain falls, skipping through ivy entwined in celadon tiles. From seaglass found tumbled on lakebed shores, I flow as kelp through current. Evergreen elegies and endocrine endogeny, laurels resting in victory, listlessly. The kelly green glimmer of a bottle at sea– wash

From the canopy of the trees, To the ground down below, I’m a garden filled with parsley, peas, and pears, Providing for those who take the time, and care. Unripe fruit falls to the ground, left to fester, Mold on the peels, returning them to the ground. A beautiful tragedy. Winding down a river, Winding down, winding away, Bringing poison from a pipe, Left oxidized by its purpose. I’m emerald light spilling from a window, A Christmas tree illuminating the snowy, silent lawn.

You see the world in present tense Every day, every sound, every noise or melody And the fresh white noise buzzes awash in your ears but you do not grieve There is no right time for requiem nor would you know if there was Follow the rabbit, memories of measures down the folds of your mind Fleeting notes disappearing by the time you catch up Some distant dirge deteriorates in the depths, there Something familiar but unknown from where Perhaps birdsong, perhaps anothe