Death checks her watch with hollow eyes
(blackened pits)
things having been buried inside
(bones).
Green becomes black, day grows old.
Fire feathers flutter to the ground. Ashes enfold.
O dear look at these red welts, I have
never seen such doors to horror,
like lifting a rock and exposing the raw skin of the dirt
(bleeding black grains, blood which sings
and reproduces willingly, sweetly, madly).
Mad love is this heartbeat which
thuds and thumps like broken clockwork.
Shining eye of the sun
beats down like fire feathers and
pours red and orange hotness onto all the
blueness and greeness of the cool, sleepy world.
Golden moon and silver sun pass without words.
So extremely flammable are these minutes,
moments on the clock which tick
by, echoing into the cavernous silence,
snatching every word
catching every breath in its throat.
Beautiful, inquisitive white sky climbs
(down no ladder) to the ground.
Death checks her watch with replete eyes
(rubbish dumps)
things having been forced inside
(flesh).
Black becomes white, day grows young.
Rain feathers pirouette to the ground. Tomorrows are hung.
