When the faded black ink stamped across the rotten wood,
pulled across endless symphonies and clockwork thoughts,
and strove to find it’s own voice,
the lockbox was thrown open.
Keys clanged against schoolhouse-rock jail cells and
Dean Martin’s voice rippled again and again
Enticing all to sway in effervescent champagne flutes
and cocktail cumberbunds.
Words beat trumpeting melodies of times long gone
-Fragile, faded, and foxed along the edges-
against cherry wood heels and sea shell bricks,
Until a thousand broken hourglasses were all that remained.
Ashen irises performed glissades on frozen cad’s hearts and
Spoke sweet chilipepper burns against the skin,
living deeply and sucking the marrow of life
So that ephemerality was the only constant in the
Bamboo-laden steps that wind around fingers in tangles.
Lips lined with the androconium pull fate’s together
and meld them with kintsugi until the glistening gold
turns into silver pennies raining from the sky.
The cling on azurite meteorites that pummel and burn
Away the sins of yesteryear while foxgloves
and ladies slippers are the psalms
Written in cursive on rosary bead lined palms.
Concrete rubble coats empty skeleton streets
In perverse dust of burnt sienna and caramel.
Gumdrops are rotting from the inside out, sugar laden with
Heroin and smiling faces promising redemption
From the mass exodus of societal minds.
Born of dust and ashes, phoenix cries
Scar the everbearing night with flashes of
Blue-green lightning and alarm-clock boxes.
Pushing and shoving, 50 stars line across 13 gashes
in a void no longer able to be filled,
These computational creations that cocoon all around
Until there’s nothing left but a gelatinous mess
Of “what-if”s and “what-will-be”s
Torn open at the seams so that nothing can grow again.
Seeds planted in desperation to grow
Infertile lands now coated with soil of the
Dirty minds that once proliferated, go dry.
Rotting cracks fall down memory lanes and
Sweet-plum roof tiles line old cobble street corners
Where darkness abounds on bitter-sweet chocolate lovers
And midnight-drawn vanilla kisses.
The stench of rotting flowers clings like desperate
Phantasms of nights long past
and whiskey stains on the carpet don’t hide the
Ouija-board melodies that blare from the old stereo.
Que sera sera never sounded so much better,
Than when vicariously placed vials are pleading
For forgiveness of sins not yet committed.
Chances are that panaceas won’t be so prolific
when poisons are subtly hidden in beige walled rooms
and adoration of long dead poets
Who scribble nonsense on papers that mean nothing
But textbook answers and thoughts that are nothing more
Than what the herd says is bad.
The shots that fire rubber coated dreams
glaze the brazen hoops holding cicada summers
And powdered-sugar coated pinecones
With the realization that childhood is but an everlasting tango
Of innocence and maturation. It leads down winding rivulet roads,
Criss-crosses with all the paths not taken
And a wise man takes the road less traveled by.