I will be a modern-day Midas,
but what I touch
will not be used for greed.
I will be a modern-day Midas,
because I want all that is around me
to be golden and beautiful.
I want to turn the sunshine
back to its original color,
because somewhere along the way,
it became dim and grey.
I want to keep a little something
that's golden in my pocket,
so I can look at it any time
and be reminded daily that
there really is still color in this world.
Most of all,
I want to help others be golden
and show them how to stay that way.
I want them to find the gold
and for them to learn how to spread it.
And I want them to realize
that they always were gol
the days have elongated
beneath their own weight
stretched to unnatural lengths
twenty
per two to three
oh
my love
I would cradle you
through any number
and when my heart
escaped
again
through my teeth
enveloped in those
four letters you find
so perplexing
you looked to me
and asked
(unbelieving)
still?
oh
my love
still
oh
my love
always
oh
my love
more and more
each moment
the way the witchlight
fills my eyes
when you do
the way my breath
catches
at your touch
the way the world holds
nothing as beautiful
as your smile
as the sound
of your laughter
the way I thrill
at knowing you
(at learning you)
still
always
more
non-overlapping magisteria by thesquareroot, literature
Literature
non-overlapping magisteria
only aposematic eyes
could see the lighter side of our
imbroglio, that hangs like stagnant
globules in the air
and fills the spaces in between
these desolated stares
fresh tendrils in the brackish breeze
we were not trained
for this eventuality, clinging
onto saccharine ghosts
that haunt our need
to stain the world in synesthesia
diametrically contrived … stochastically coherent
and are there fossils under all this meat
or are we raw and incomplete
creatures coiled and poised to pull
down a monolith or three
welcome
to wherever you are
in your parallax position lobbing
pebbles at a black hole
persistent and insistent that
correlation is not cause
to cozy up to kings or worship
the cozened words of geists and gods
until in the ruins
in the dark
your brain just kind of :::blows:::
a gaseous cloud of neon pulsing
hypnagogic shrapnel
and from deep within that substrate laden
labyrinthine farrago –
emerges something just to die;
extemporaneous and hauntingly beautiful
hell as a porcelain doll by Tiger--eyes, literature
Literature
hell as a porcelain doll
for years I will be straining
locked around old wounds
turning my softness
into bone
to hold this shape
I will make myself a statue
stooped and craning
my shoulders
hunched
and knuckles
bulbous
and my face
an ageless mask
to show no years
no pain
the wheel is turning
and when you speak me into words I do believe
colors ripen
gravel roads cough up their harvests
and every unloved house
becomes my home
I am made
of capricious breezes
I am watching
for autumn winds
I live between the chinks of missing grout and cracking tile
drinking up the mud
of last year’s pond
and I bleed out all my anger into marrow-hungry earth
even as the evening shadows lengthen
and draw me to my cell
where I will swallow down my voice
and wait for sun-long days to call again
and bring my own blood back to me
in velvet skins
and sugar flesh
so I
for once
will be my own feast