Ash Dandelion
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The sleep chimes made me hum along
To their silent prey notes.
When the night star landed on the sky outside,
I did not know where I was.
To another dimension, perhaps –
The dead live there;
Vermons make spiral curlicues
On the walls surrounding my roots.
Atop my fingertips, my veins
Run backwards to gravity’s pull
In that dimension where the dead live.
I feel thirsty, my mouth cried; a
Vase of dry ash and mirror powder.
So the pitcher water looked up at me –
There is something insipid about my reflection
On the water surface in that oblivious space and time.
It pushes me off my path,
Despite how subtly – this slimy crack in my brain.
A drop of water trickles down my hollow esophagus
Like dry milk over a dead baby’s spine.
I know I cannot gulp this down.
Shall the drops spew out of my eyes like black daggers.
I see a car pull up the drive way –
You with your suitcase, a book in hand
Curl at my doorstep but my raven
Locked me in and chewed on the keys.
If only our wrists came with bolts and keys too.
Would you have the access to mine? The squaling
Of my raven – ample evidence against a grey sin –
Gives me the answer. For what shall befall the ignorant
If the wise decided to make duplicate keys?
Would you come to me then, a tired eye of the storm
To weigh me down under clouds of love, a book in hand?
The chandelier on the ceiling before me reminds me
Of the many dreams we had together – concentric
Like the glassy flowers of the chandelier.
What a disgust it looks like; envisioning veins
Hanging from each glass flower, my sinful head
Turned towards the ground as it hangs, utterly empty.
So when they stuffed sin down my gut and tainted
The cover of innocent we are all born with,
A thing so meager couldn’t be moved against them.
Which calendar did they follow? Why did they decide
To slash open my bones and implant their seed in?
Now years swim at the edge of my nerve cells.
The one I love could be further than this – further
Than the hounds of hell below my feet.
Yet I grow listless of it; a mind cannot but wander
When the heaven above it cracks and melts.
She will succumb like a lamb stuck in a lion’s teeth;
Came the cry of my creators and my captives.
Perhaps that is the thorn I wish to sting my eye upon – a
Bleeding end for a bleeding start.
Shall they weep, my bones, under the ground below their feet
Will mix their salty taste on the ash of dandelions atop my grave.
