The Chalice of Murdered Crows
"The Chalice of Murdered Crows"
How many moonbeams
would it take to overflow
my chalice bathe me naked
dew kissed diamond glistening
bare skin freedom feet seeking
my missing, slow dancing lover’s athamé
How many sunbeams
would it take to burn
your see-through eyes knowing all
right through my violent pounding chest
pluck my stinging heartstrings like a smoking Cello
pull me towards your magnetic fearless breast
hear your bless’ed rising bellow, a victory call put to the test
As my world turns like a spinning top
thrust me through your fiery portal
to rest in your heavenly arms
lightening storms and thunder
electric fibrillate emotions resurrect
rocking gently, languid perched atop your calm ocean
we are transparent
ghosts of each other
True Confederates
A plundered treasure box
overflowing with secret charms
rosaries, safe passages from a book,
jigsaw puzzle pieces strange treasure maps,
a blunderbuss, gunpowder, snake poison
and moist pearls drop divinely on your deck
the wind, your breath, whispers it’s sacred balm into my ears
“No need to fear, take a sip from my chalice, my dear -
Secure your harbour” Rooster crows three times
Light ascends within,
cloaked darkness slyly turns and smiles
it's out to win again
La Petite Mort
Moon kisses Sun and burns
Chalice overflows
swooning drunk on LOVE
As our real world returns tangled in
sheets of clean white pages
Unmarked, invisible, story
Murder of Black Crows in all their glory
flutter feathered wings retreat approaching dawn
they are seeking the Dark Star and spider webs
before the early morn
Keys are played silently ‘tis tattooed forever on the brain
Sweet memory bleeds into right margin,
Written on the body, a baby’s to be borne, to reign
Love Letter sealed forever, marks a moment
in the Chronicles of Wasted Time
The Cuckoo The Great Pretender pretending she’s behest
sits on the absent Swan Queen’s nest, while
Jailbirds screech alongside their familiars
Flying Monkeys banging on their chests -
Like rancid oysters shucked
Poe has swallowed Plath
Death has put the past to rest
Turns forward the hands of time
in this story of twisted fate
a sweet life never rhymes
Two minutes past Midnight
Two very distant Swans escape
they are flying East not West
Poe has swallowed Plath
Death has put the past to rest
https://youtu.be/YDBzVJCMLsw
Morning Mr Magpie/Radiohead
Copyright © Leanne Lovejoy-Burton | Year Posted 2018
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