Cherry Bombs and Paper Souls
I'm no longer into perfumed winks.
That rip the sails from listing hearts.
Then offer them to the icy deep.
I'd rather hear sparrow song.
Then a king's glittering coo.
There's thunderous truth in how
nature tilts her head to gauge intent.
Plucks rubies from the silver bough.
I'm grizzled now.
Into tranquil sorts of things.
A lily waltzing summer pond.
Gazing deep into purring dream.
Its beach glass over gold and glitz.
Soft sand beneath my bent veined feet...
Asphalt is for collecting stiletto shells.
And the echoes of things that bleed.
I'm grizzled enough to know,
kings merrily vomit cherry bombs at the bow of paper souls.
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