Red Joy
Even jewels become worthless if you don’t treasure them.— The Liar And His Lover
Blood soaked sheets become ash
Say they're happy the
way your eyes twitch,
with grayness in the ivory
moonlight of fallen red
rose petals
Syrup poured on the concrete,
the very poise of your lips
as they become the color of plums,
welting like bruises in the sun.
Screaming that becomes catastrophic
like Sunday morning, love the color of ebony
turns to fighting patterns in the
eagles feathers, of lies.
Pretending to be happy,
unspoken heart filled with syrup like
pumpkin spiced pancakes.
When your just as sweet as running down your
plate like syrup,
as unsatisfied as the damaged
stained makeup wall, tasting brown sugar.
Snakes in the pit
of your throat,
unspoken scriptures,
kisses of the angels
on your lips.
Turning into a swan
of unspoken safe places
to turn.
Forming in the very mist of red joy
of time, no one
can see the blood soaked sheets of
a relationship that
dreads in the place of a curious place.
As I sit down
while my father
pours syrup on
my pancakes,
saying nothing because
it was all already said
in the way my father poured
his syrup...
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