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