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The Foxy Neutrino

The psychology of the sun is strange...

The violinist's taupe 
strapped sandals, color of beach 
sand, burning, slap tiles

with embedded grime, like
the charred plaster walls of a Syrerian
merchant. Anytime...a fear:

bombs dropped, scarring 
an isolated biped life.
Morning edges spill

light the tint of egg-
whites commixed with the yolk, brewing
the dream that souses

the intangable 
permeation of the air;
imbued rose colors

of birth; or a prom's
carnation, white tinted blue
like the cottony sky

draped over the fringes
of liminal lives cast onto
the arcane stage

of a paralyzed 
mortality. A need
of warmth for the flower,

the snug petals that breach 
an infernal cut into 
the animus in life.

A stygian gash
insufferable like a pompei 
brain cooked into glass,

a fossil the tinct
of diabolical eyes. An
appollyn rises 
 
to seize the sun's foxy
neutrino, more easily 
snared than bombs.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020




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Date: 1/28/2020 12:36:00 AM
Congrats on your win and thank you for entering !;)
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Date: 1/26/2020 5:48:00 AM
a great poem.. you write very well..
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Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry