The Crate Holds Wings
Our tongues have become the cosmos without proximity.
The unsymmetrical creaks and cracks of words
seeping through hallucinations-lies:
of dark deaths and fruitless lives.
"Immaculate," as bloody lips may say,
"such a contradiction in a vocabulary that does not have wings."
Wings that were snapped by shortage of blood to the heart
That only was seeped by lips and tongue.
Then the heart relies on the tongue, I suppose.
For the word "love" is an artery in the heart:
The reason we care
Her eyes were borderless.
The veins in bleached whites
Were forests of blood: Giving her moonless eyes stories to tell.
The forests withered.
Bleeding blue. Bleeding violet.
She believed changing her way could save her,
But she was classified as "alien".
Despite this, her Red remained
in the violet that she chose-
clutching the creaky and cracked Crate of our own truth.
Share This Poem