Awake, To Be Awakened
Cicadas squeak in unutterable frequency
out in the wilderness. There is one pallor
face overlapping with the foliage. Tousled
hair and sloppy shoulders--she frees her
girdle. It kisses the cigar in her hand.
Willows weeping, washing her image
away. Her silhouette slips through anything
that forgets to seal their lips. Nothing can
desist her limpid temptation, they all
succumb under her voodoo.
An umbra of a scythe hung from the
ceiling, sundering the arms and legs of
the spiral staircase. Her raw toes print
melodies and paint elixir--calming those
reverberation of the broken timber.
She smells a burr from the nadir, leaps
onto the chandelier and into mid-air.
Both balustrades arise to cradle her till
she is swooned and slow, too slow to
savor the subterranean casket.
Copyright © Helen Cheng | Year Posted 2015
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