Dark Ages
She thinks in exotic colours
that drip off her tongue
like sharp shining jewels
formed somewhere deep
in the permafrost of her,
the grey matter thrives
in the lava somewhere
rising inside the
lux velvet crimson
pulsing at the core of her,
and births diamonds
that drip off her tongue
like icicles
that could pierce and shatter
a heart or could melt them
just the same
He is like a rhesus monkey
quite short in mind,
small in sound, oh,
but never sound,
the expression on his face,
wanting, eternally perplexed,
the value of his thoughts jumbled,
his darting hirsute mind
running zealous riots around
invisible conquests in
neverending schizoid circles,
rattling the bars of his cage
just for attention,
his words form strangely
for a species trapped
in his own dark age,
each day hardly speaking
but his mind screaming,
passing his hand through
his thinning hair
he is time poor
holding a cup
out for love
to the monkey grinder
all seems lost in poetic translation
yet, it ferments in the daily conditioning,
the small ritualistic routines
regularly delivered in bed before sleep
and upon waking
for one cannot survive without the other;
it’s in the feeding, not in the taking
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Copyright © Candide Diderot | Year Posted 2024
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