Emancipation
There is no word for the barn-burning
Dream I didn't have in my mouth,
Tasting like blade, running like blood,
Through the inlaid veins of the kite.
There is no dictionary writing at the tip
Of the inky quill of time suspended,
Time adorned, time wombed and born.
The rose swallowed the bee ant the sting
Burned a whole, the size of a day apart
Into the heart of the vowels running amok
The seesaw earthiness of the ethereal self.
Copyright © Witty Fay | Year Posted 2015
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