Your heartbeat pulses against your grace filled throat as a lamb lined up in a row when the spring wind is blood scented and flowers are faint–mild, bee thrummed, delicate beneath the harsh metallic flavor that makes your mind swirl with fear.
Your lissome femininity never so admirable and desirable as now: your arteries tumescent and turbulent unto each oxygen rich tributary that floods your roseate flesh with an inviolate yes.
I love you Eurydice… memorably dying beneath a harsh summer sun after the unnamed serpent’s acerbic poison seeped mercury-quick into your blue veins and when the moon rose over Thrace, your last tears dried on your cheeks –dew that evaporates from petals once pink and red and now pale– I found you there in the underworld and sang for beauty’s release, sang for your salvation…
But that’s all a painful memory like the knife sharp scent of my blood troublesome it lay ripe upon this air that turns steadily warm and fair as the equinox soon returns.
i'm a 42 year old writer and have spent the last two decades sifting through books in a variety of libraries all across the southern United States while writing poems, stories and novels and am only now standing at that precipice where i'm willing to share my work with the world. my single greatest fear with regard to writing is that what i've penned would waste someone's precious time.
In the soul of the city, the four wheels, the scream for pity. Mercy screamed louder than her voice. Little girls sleeping promised with their toys. Not even one, the strong, the brave, the soldier, the slave. No one could