Poison Ides

Fire descends upon the plains
Of our own digressions,
Synaptic pathways and mutable
Contours of a degenerative sod.

Scooped but not startled,
Strained yet not inebriated,
Lost,
Owing to the fantasies
Of fairy tale regalia.

I was looming
Where the sea
Meets mythology
And births misogyny.

Love meets death meets
Horticulture. Benefaction,

Remedial centrifuge of distractions,
Accursed contours of a gloating bitch,
Whose eyes have not met mine
For days and years of time;
What little left I have, is yours to rhyme.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s