her bones are not yet inspired

dark ink dripping

within that soul

of golden honey and rosemary blend

a gentle beauty within her

that wants to touch the sun,

thoughts of something already lost

and not yet found

filling her mind

( in whispers, sharing a bright sky,

and the night spectrum under heavy eyelids )

pulse beating in pained motion, and slower breaths

( she says it’s darker there now )

wind howling through the cracks

of glass walls,

tradition, culture - unnecessary vines around fragile wrists

a suffocating thickness of something that’s meant to be good

but is sharp, scratchy, woolen rough

that’s why her heart is caught

in a web

of eternal summer,

but always placed in the days

that smell of

lingering autumn leaves

I see that soul swirling, stuck

somewhere

around a dandelion’s dream

her bones are not yet inspired

but there is light under those fingertips

silently getting ready,

waiting

for the wildflowers to bloom once again

in those gentle arms,

strength hidden in the way she smiles

( with kindness, such kindness )

despite the ache set deep

under those powder blue lungs

.

Golden moments

often far and few between,

lay before our eyes,

destined to be held or forgotten,

envisioning what was verses what is;

never deciding which is right.

Having choices helps,

outwighing none at all;

negate the narcotic of indecision,

enlighten your mind to new pathways;

your future depends on you.

Big brown eyes speckled with bits of gold gaze out the window, looking at the tree standing right in the middle of the grassy field buzzing with striped bees as they flit about their honeycomb nest.

A jar full of golden honey rests on the kitchen table sweet and gooey ready to be eaten with fresh cream and toasted bread.

Warm sunlight filters in through the transparent blinds wavering in the summer breeze.

Its a new dawn, a new day, a new start to a new May.

And I am as gay as a lark once again.

Golden honey.

Sweet Mead.

Oldest of all.

Nector of the northern gods.

Bane of Thor.

#fiction

broken glass bottle

on the sink

the amber liquid inside

spills slowly to the floor.

i watch,

unable to stop the flow.

i watch as the golden honey

drips to the ground.

she sees the mess and screams

i just watch, eyes and ears not

processing her presence.

golden honey drips

broken glass glints

and i watch it all

fall apart.

Soft and soothing, with the ability to slow time itself.

Warm and sweet, the fuzzy blossoms of first dawn rising over mountains.

Yellow tinted amber shone with tiny slivers of glowly dust.

Melting and soft, molding and blurring and smearing into the vast palette of sky.

Familar and warm, like the embrace of a mother welcoming her children into a new day.

Soft and warm, like honey of a golden hue.

Golden honey, appearing like an explosion of light at dawn.

Most of all I remember the Australians. They always seemed so overjoyed whenever they found those big purple bags in the back of the store under the Kinder.

"We only found these back home," they said, their voices beaming as I shoved the bags of honeycomb candy into another layer of plastic. "And we were so glad that we could find them here, we didn't even know they existed in America. It's nice to have a reminder of home, with the travel ban and all that. Thank you."

I never really had a reason to thank them. I only worked the register; I didn't fly the cargo plane or drive the shipping boat or drag boxes from the truck into the warehouse, or even put the candy out on the shelves. But I did all I could to make their endless stay something of sweetness. Like honey, I tried to be transparent and sweet, and keep the golden color of my innocence.

Then the store closed. It wasn't anything in our control-- just a corporate buyout, cutting off my job right as it was getting good. I didn't know what I could do to lift my spirits. I tried to keep myself uplifted for the people in line, but how can you do that when you're considering the rest of your life? So I did the one thing that always made me better-- I bought food. Specifically, a bag of honeycomb candy.

There were a lot of good things about that candy. The chocolate coating, the crystalline way it twinkled when you bit into it, the way it dissolved in your mouth. But to me, it was a lifeline-- an invisible string tying me to the people I'd served, the ones whose lives I'd hopefully sweetened just a little bit. Above all else, I hope that they've made their way home.

The sunlight peaks through the lace curtains. The heavenly morning rises with the sky as the warm light fills the home. light so soft it purifies the darkness. The silent night stillness melts away, warm golden honey filling in between the cold gaps. Fresh morning dew drops coat pastel petals as they sway in a spring breeze, brushing up gently agaisnt the pink cottage walls. the butterflies and bees emerge, ready for the day. They flutter through an overgrown garden, basking in the golden light. Humming birds nest in the trees, rainbow feathers refelcting like stained glass. The calmless stills the rising earth, a gentle scene gifted by the rise of a new day.

Sweet gold, oozing from so high above. It clots in his eyes (the world is the sunset, amber stained trees, golden hued rock every crack and fasset glistening with the sheen: Gold and Crimson), drizzles into his mouth (divinely sweet, mingling with the iron bitterness of his lifeblood). He does not breathe now, they do that for him, their sursurations and enraged humming penetrating his ears in waves. And down drips the godfood from that great rend he left above.

He does not breath.

They take him up, following that viscous thread, up and up, and paste his soul in. Masticate, swallow, regurgitate, repair. Slowly: decomposing below, growing above. The breath of their wings giving rise, anew, to conciousness. And it does not see the bones below through the neon glow of orchids.