There is order and chaos both in lips met
under an allowing Sun where breezes vent
through swimming leaves upon newly dried cement.
And, truly, where does such fate go to be spent?
For an imbalance is at a head.
In misfortune tear's glow.
In children's memories sow.
Inside treasured chests bestowed
with cogs to fit just as tight as ticks could hold.
Stately, gray, morose, statues like wagging fingers pose.
Love in cereal boxes and drawer compartments and
Oh, right, above rusty refrigerator doors; behind rows
of tiny figurine chickens that only know repose and re-pose.
That hooligan, villain, that saintly freedom fighter grown.
"How you tag my heart in your silver, a temptation as gold."
Wait. An admirer with hands and eyes to hold and behold?
Truth is benign I care not for it. Truth is defined and yet not bold,
I say. "Truth" is not in this apartment where home is not home
but on the streets where fear persists and where my brand
like Gladiator exists, therefore, and grants me excuse to be,
And so I say meet me in you and know not to know me.
Paperplane missiles folded with love and bloody fingers,
"Kiss me and know how well my love has found you as your
rebellion has found me, my favorite outcast beside my own detests."
Share This Poem