Forever Young, Or Evan the Sage
Of all the Little Kings climbing
Hand over foot towards viciously tantalizing, grandiose
Constellations of which whir and buzz as wind up toys,
Glow worm manifestations
Of hanging mobile stars suspended from thread
Woven by The Fates from dreams vicarious
And still-warm brick oven hopes
Nestled sweetly in the ribcages' soft marrow,
My chest, agape, crackling with never quite dried blood,
The wound steaming fresh loneliness--a shrine
To the Stillborn--
Is stuffed clumsily on chubby, greased palms
With fresh wishes on old pennies,
Words teaming with glimpses of goodnight kisses
And soft, innocent breaths stirring upstream like salmon,
By the tenderness of only one Tarot Sage
And my Heart's desert riverbeds
Eagerly absorb a rain.
"Forever Young, or; Evan The Sage"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad | Year Posted 2012
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