Thursday, September 24, 2015

orion at daybreak

The morning star swims in a pool of milky light,
suspended between twin deeps,
Grapefruit pink, the sunrise burns away
the wispy clouds of night,
and turns the horizon into a
flaming line of battle;
the meeting place of two opposing forces.

Two opposing forces:
the steely spark of thought in constant motion,
of turning gears and whirring ribbons
that swim inside your eyes
greet mine, moistened by desire.
soft brown and gentle blue,
distinct, yet intimate.

Intimate: not coy.
Nothing there jejune,
nothing there insipid,
an honesty that is--
quite frankly--
terrifying.
All the layers of wit and repartee,
hanging hollow like an empty chrysalis,
brittle, unused, and pointless,
shabby and embarrassing,
like a fashion made obsolete
by the rapid bursts and swells of fancy.

Wit has strangely vanished.
My tongue,
like a hornet dismantled of his stinger,
is impotent in its absence.
the armor that protects us from such systems,
is gathering dust in our closets.
And we are left with nothing but
Twin deeps,
shining at one another,
across the chasm of a coffee table.

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