Bike Bells In Winter

They drift gently down(downed)? Into the heart they root, confetti on desperate streets glowing like gilded red roses. Smell them as they chant your songs.. so very often(semi-pure hearted) they keep things(you) aloft, far above the stingers the biters of early frost. All the while death's photographic memory tapdancing,tossing needles. You feel you can ride razors, go unscarred. A pinwheel inside the bubble of sodapop dreams, live forever's eternity.. the loins of the mind a crisp-confident ball of catnip and tinsel. Every by-way of everyday doused in gentle flames every gaze a swaying mosaic of prarie flowers... but the sun is but a blemish to storm... the downy gaze is but a concrete stare, the eyes of hope glancing off yesterday when trails were filled with bike bells and pulse. Petals of just being, brushed beneath tender chins we both liked butter and blurry stars... and we kissed... clumsily -chiptoothed - pure and sediments of love and living will devolve, wings tend to become claws flight into crawl... an uncomfortable lavender. Paths will rut, become trough become.. cold canyon flash flooding crashing. Broken flowers cascading under the chin butter turns rancid crows barking, "I told you so-should have listened to father, when he begged you to slow down sip slowely and breathe. The silk of naive leads to brushfires in the mind everything given to scorch... the hills the troughs we (the survivors) hang from trees groping the dark to descend to the bones of things once loved of things once cherished of things now hated of things avoided things that lay dead.. a plague of darknesses bred in the silences of hopeless. The lullaby raped into hoarsness, like bike bells in winter.