poetry

Uniformity

Imagen de ᎡᎪ

There is absolutely no pattern for a person to decay
or a pattern for the fruit to burst.
Nature shove the ashes of human anatomy
like a geranium in rust
and spit into the sky.
A definite pause for the system to observe
cracks open
with no faint hope, at times.
How do you see hope now?
Hope is a face disguised as        d e a  t  h
you know you will ultimately sink.

You talk about shadows and yellow summers
well all I see is a child, tanned
with slender fingers picking up the peel of an orange,
he is quiet now.
He has his summers all circulating inside his belly.
A pattern, do you see now?

A pattern for sweaty fingers and arms,
the dead, barren tongue of the cloak,
away from the winters and summers.
A toxic waistline of slippery dreams.
Where is the uniformity?
In the pallet of a child’s dream,
in the veins of his eye
See quietly, do not speak,
There is absolutely no uniformity.

For it has been corroded, now.

Tired,
tired
I am a madhouse for this absurdity!


Submission for Olive skins