Honest Reflections of a Manogre
A small patch of flowers, a mountain top glade
slapped into twirls of magenta by cold rain~
voiceless but pleading for the purity of truth
to be taken by {a} tender into the beating of dawn
In sundream they'll play,black butterly and fawnheart
tempering time untill dusk makes the crows bark,
cackling where was the {us} when living turned to blood
drowned the frolick of every prayer for tomorrow-
was it a chain of slanted decisions,that minced the light
bad luck (as when a dime slides from the ritze to the grate...
maybe we met long ago, when we crawled from the sea
took different directions by the will of a rogue breeze
maybe we had parallel lives?
made from the bones of wild planets of fire
what happens when magenta meets black and blue
[this is a good time to dust of the pallet-start mixing the hues],
what colors do a rabid cyclone leave behind
the texture of twisted stars,
to be swallowed by the devil of devine?
young butterfly remembers the innocense of light,
when moonglow made love to the black lips of night.
'till a pack of knives slashed at its wings
(ta hell with the good fight).
..now it no longer searches for mountain top flowers,
or dreams in pools of magenta-
it lies in the mud juggling broken eggs
upon a pile of old dung-
how in the hell can such a thing... love
again.
but their is a softness buried deep
in this blaze of a runaway train
hop on board if you will
follow the reflection of manogre...
to be cont.
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