Mayhap it’s a Blaspheme
The crescendo from the women at the baby shower was a painful ache in the once peaceful glade.
The constant pummel of gossip from their alizarin lips may very well be a blaspheme.
the sound of a rainbow
in a golden glade of soprano notes
there's a tree the color of minor key
and with every note, it's crimson grows
with alizarin crescendos.
though bleeding ears may be pummeled and ache
drowned by a shower of endless high notes
and basses so low that they seem to blaspheme.
my eyes will never tire
of watching the seasons change
like a tall dark redbud
blossoming into a dark red song.
Wilting on the balcony
i try to drown the ache,
in a hot shower, then a cold,
then hot again,
the alizarin crimson on the knob,
mocks me and blaspheme;
'you could neither drown this,
ache you feel,
nor the springtime glade capture,
in thy hand and pen!'
'tis so, i fear,
i'm not well built,
for this pummeling,
no sheild have i,
from those burning rays.
they rise in luminisity,
soon the crescendo,
will stifle my thoughts.
and this is not even
while she blasphemes
the god of butterflies
who flit and fly
'cross green glades
on sunny days
as alizarin water
which does not
In Pain We Trust
May was not the time to blaspheme,
With smooth glades of ache to drown
The alizarin voices of hate.
Their hard hands,
A swirling crescendo,
Pummel all passion
Into a lasting shower of pain.
A dull ache. A shower of alizarin liquid. May the eternal pummel upon the glade crescendo unto those who relish in the blaspheme.
a Crescendo of peace slowly glides along my skin;
a Shower of sorts, warm water with soap that smells
more like May than the cheap Glade I purchased
for the season. Blaspheme, I'd Pummel the store clerk
if my heart didn't Ache every time I bore witness to their
Alizarin spring dress with curves like rivers.
'till May showers
back to hiding
a love affair with death
the beetles digging deep in my skin,
they're dyed in crusted, rusted alizarin.
blood or pigment there is no difference.
by the soil that which accepts me
i am become deliverence.
the way my skin melts into the glade
of which, the touch of decay,
sped along by April showers,
pummel the ground to a verdant grave
of which, my body lays down.
though perhaps a windy crescendo shall
herald the end.
after all, what other embargo walls
could the beetles erect in my lost flesh?
they eat to stall a love affair with death.
now, words like blaspheme make me ache.
for this rotting body is in a place
of consecrated ground,
and time will leave no lasting trace
of what these bones used to sing about.
Oh young one,
may you be accepted by the ever approaching crescendo of expression, designed to blaspheme that which was once held sacred and known.
Do not attempt to dodge the alizarin shards of progress that—showered in the blood of past ideas—will pummel the souls of those who with a deep nostalgic ache inside them populate the ever-expanding glade that is experience.
And this will never stop happening.