Wormwood
Palm fronds clatter
in a Santa Ana wind
and I am bitter as quinine.
Leaves furl
as the dead hands of summer
and I am bitter as wormwood.
The sun could burst in my anger,
leaves its flame in my ears
instead of forgotten promises.
If to give up is to hear truth
I wish I were deaf,
not to hear the sham
of words and music
and to steel in silence
rather than my heart bleed.
Tell me nothing but facts:
that sky is blue, but not cerulean.
Say sun is hot,
not warm as love's breath.
Teach me not to wait
for lies to blossom like ranunculus
in my heart's winter.
Speed blindness
and I will lie in the dark,
not to wait for day's break.
5th Place
Mid Summer Premier Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
7/21/17
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