My Scarlet Remains
December 30, 2020
And through it all, seasons famished or full, my dear Scarlet, you remain.
Sprightly and apparent
always your heart cut and pushed forward.
From window view, it hung bent below your left breast
just right of your thoughts.
Like sweetened licorice its flavor speaks unspoilt,
like restorative puree with a belly warming taste;
You exist to remind me to hemorrhage openly, never to waste.
Your skin, bright as blossomed truth and soaked in the
hue of amorous wine.
You fly amongst a quartet of colors
while clearing a contemplative space for creation to take place.
Playful yet quaint,
Isolated through gossamer clouds, Scarlet sips most from the moment,
As near to the sun past flesh permits.
I watch you and want to drinking from the vein of your thoughts.
Born from dribbled embers
You pull from the blood of the earth
You drink romanced tears while cloaked in heat;
Time, you do not twaddle with as though deaths door is nigh.
In you Scarlet, there are no remains, only, everything
and nothing is left unturned to ask why.
Through Scarlet birds I am reminded of all that is life;
electric love wailing about in windy theatrics,
perpetually pouring itself into inhaling ventricles,
dying for the filling.
By: Magnolia Lafleur
THINE EYES!
October 14, 2020
Compressed black and swallowed, it lays buried inside a canvas of melted, foolish lines.
Busted color leaked into solidarity on an open pupil.
Trapped inside a fluxing current smudged with bereavement and the blissful madness in-bedded from
the gluttony of au courant moments, moments true and peeled,
moments rotted and soiled in the profoundness bathing inside the ticking unanimity of ones own mind; visible existence.
And oh the things it bares witness to;
Transportive passions spun into the playful minds of eager architects.
Mid-summer sky’s, boiling, smiling, scolding the skin.
How it exchanges the dreams planked inside the weary tear ducts of tepid cooling clouds.
And blackness, born from a speechless space, an alchemistic abyss; one third of our lives.
What paradise finds home inside these jello eyes?
For it is they that wrote this, not I.
Eyes of white,
Eyes of gold,
Courted and neatly trimmed by the thoughts of Michael Angelo.
These glinting, darting, dancing eyes,
Why they have no option but to nebulously sink, in occasion, behind the squint of suspicious lids.
Safeguarded at all times.
But while they remain veiled beneath weakened lids,
They remain open,
fixated inside the belly of a crepuscular night;
They do not sleep.
