There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
Beneath a porcelain moon that melts like lard, The kitchen floats on tides of violet glass. I stir the bruised geometry of stars,
By Forest Green11 days ago in Poets
We woke beneath a sky of melted mint, Where clouds were spun of sugar-frost and light, And every blade of earth caught emerald glint,
The sky dissolved to curd and beaten gold, A buttery horizon, folded deep, Where silver spoons of cloud began to steep In citrus light that refused to grow old.
The jade and glass plateau, Where violet moons begin to glow, The stalks of crystal rhubarb wake, Drinking the light of a liquid lake.
The morning broke in shades of bruised magenta, Where ruby berries floated on the lawn, And stalks of jade climbed up the steep horizon,
Beyond the lavender rim of the sleeping moon, Where rivers run backward in silver-strung tune, The valley awakens in amethyst light,
Beneath a violet moon that wept in cream, The kitchen drifted through a frozen dream, Where ticking clocks had turned to molten glass,
The kitchen clock drips backwards down the wall, Where summer sleeps in jars of amber glass. Outside, the velvet shadows start to crawl,
The orchard bled through heavy glass, Where pears of wax and bismuth bleed, And clockwork wings of beetles pass Across a tart of frozen seed.
Upon a table spun of morning mist, Where gravity forgets its heavy pull, We found the pastry, sun-and-butter kissed, A golden circle, fathomless and full.
Upon a porcelain plate of spun-glass blue, Where shadows melt and skies begin to brew, They set the table for a dream to rise—
The twilight hums in shades of melted pear, As porcelain plates float softly through the air. A kitchen drifts upon a painted sea,
