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.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2011
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