Her pale face is voided antiquity,
a paper-thin line
fallen fresh
from flowery fallacy
to hardwood floor, coiled
cold & blue in landing;
words, like little
droplets of April rain,
a distant deluge
of drought parsing orange
Hemerocallis petals
trenching
around her.
To see it unfold.
Bent at the altar,
Spring’s forgotten daughter can’t.
Categories:
hemerocallis, death, father daughter,
Form: Free verse
Digiti minimi
We only see the log in their occuli
And rain arrows at our enemies
God does not play dice!
Lame we lay inordinati
Like holidays on a Sunday
Unknown in my modus operandi
Since I am just another pinky.
Anatómico numero, you say?
Then let the lesser weigh
Take me like a royal hemerocallis
For, I am your digiti minimi.
By :Tutuola michael
Categories:
hemerocallis, beauty,
Form: Narrative