My Hourglass
An explosion of hair in her face is disclosing
the beauty of the eyes veiled beholding
a dream unfolding where the poor are gold and
war is at most a bloody tale told in
the misty night when the tired have grown old with-
-out the tolls of belly aches, headaches, of long days, and frights
Bold in that stare behind her marigold locks
unearthing sand from the cogs of the clock
to find the prophecies of ink written in chalk
and the hourglasses spilling time when broken in thought
Speared was a heart fleeing the thought
of what values would be shed plucking clots
leaving erased from the gallows written red where thou arts
To thank love apologize not from a part
within the within the humanitarian chart
is to disgrace predecessors flooded where caught
red-handed bearing spirits not winded but sought
Ever flusters her retreating tendrils, those magnificent knots,
from their comfortable or fleeting pores, where ink drops on the flesh and blots
(written sometime during a dark 2015)
Copyright © Brandon Connor | Year Posted 2018
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