Honest Reflections of a Manogre
A small patch of flowers, a mountaintop glade.
Slapped into twirls of magenta by a cold rain~
voiceless but pleading for the purity of truth
to be taken by {a} tender into the beating of dawn.
In a sunny dream they'll play, black butterfly and fawn heart
tempering time until dusk makes the crows bark,
cackling where was the {us} when living turned to blood
drowned the frolic 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 ritzy 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 on fire.
What happens when magenta meets black and blue
[this is a good time to dust off the palette- start mixing the hues],
what colors does a rabid cyclone leave behind
the texture of twisted stars,
to be swallowed by the devil of divine?
Young butterfly remembers the innocence of light.
When moonglow made love to the black lips of night.
'til a pack of knives slashed at its wings
(to hell with the good fight).
Now it no longer searches for mountain top flowers.
Nor does it dream 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 there 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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