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)