and red monster blankets
I was up to watch the sun
she rose from the western crest of Mount Rainier
bright pink and shivered.
I slipped the early riser back into bed
snuggled her close to the sheets
under the spell of her fairy tale.
And now the sun has made a half-light
strange from the underside up
she settles beneath the new found horizon
made reflecting by a span of fresh cloud.
She stretches out golden-
a gold that can only be seen at dusk or
a gently winder dawn; and
the lawn is flanked with it.
This day is my Julia Child's omelet
flipped in imperfection
but delicious, like New Year's morning
bright in a cold wood room
mildly intoxicated
slipping down the steps for the taste of an old love
and I refuse to use a spatula.
The Stars claim my ex-lover is dead.
Yet an overcast sun lifting high above the shadows whispers,
"She is not dead. But the love is."
My ex-lover is a tyrant.
My ex-lover is a tyrant.
She is the ocean crashing waves against the moon.
My ex-lover doesn't make cookie rage
she is cookie rage!
And I am proud to become her process.
And I am proud to become her process.
We measure:
2 tsp gun powder
2 tsp gun powder
1/4 c acid rain
3 tbsp volcanic rock and
1 soft boiled egg.
She is ingrained in everything I write.
She infiltrates my quiet morning and
sinks teeth into my pumpkin spice.
Fortune is unavoidable.
As the sun abreast the peak
As tears resting my father-in-law's perfectly manicured lawn
As my unfaltering devotion to my new life
I am not searching for a way out.
I am searching for a way in.
2 comments:
My ex-lover is a tyrant.
This is truth.
"She is not dead. But the love is."
This is not.
Addendum:
...it's only sleeping.
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