Pomegranates will crack themselves open in two to to show you the truth
if you touch them until they shake
and plead pretty, pretty please.
*
A boy with armor for eyes and a field of wheat at golden hour for hair
kneels in the heart of a buried forest,
where the grass has not had a chance to breathe since spring.
While his blood, thick and maroon, flees through fingertips
she thinks of how she misses the heliotropes of Hecate.
*
Hecate, Hecate, Hecate,
won’t you raise Hell for me?
Life is hills and valleys, dear boy,
but you’ve found yourself at the bottom of a mountain.
*
The sword in-between his ribs has a cinereal candy coating,
charming enough to coax her seeds out of hiding.
*
The best affairs are with death.
Only amateurs acquire an audience.
*
Boys believe bashful beings
are the same as innocent things
but girls can hide bejeweled blades in-between blooming breasts.
*
The hanged man has the most charming eyes.
Did you know that awe can heal all?
*
She waits until Satan has gotten her fill,
as she know how the devil loves her scarred scared soldiers.
Then, even though she cannot yet rightfully call him a man,
she takes a single step forward.
*
The shy, sly, sarcastic sultress.
Isn’t this what you always wanted?
Isn’t this what everyone either dreams of possessing
or becoming?
*
He stares,
starstruck
stumbling
seen
while the evergreens before him
begin to dance.
*
Branches float,
as if on strings,
rising and falling,
and breathing to the tune
of The Dark Side of the Moon.
*
Air can be as fickle as water,
when shifted through
correctly.
*
Her trunk swings,
her leaves tease,
silent
but turbulent enough
to create a chasm
in her core.
*
She shifts through the snow as she shifts inside herself,
offering a few grateful blades a glimpse of frosted air
as her trunk curves in,
creating a lean, soft waist,
and she dares to ask,
what is your name?
*
Abraham.
*
Her sisters begin to follow her tune,
Speak To Me
Breathe (In the Air)
On The Run
Time.
*
Ah, the most capricious of things.
Do you think he has had enough?
*
I hate time,
have been at war with her for as long as I can remember.
(Please kindly get me off of this bullet train.)
*
They sing back,
perhaps.
*
She morphs,
mystical magical musical but mostly mad,
mental but never metal.
If not for the lure of this coating,
the sweet method of methane.
*
Mister and Missus Misery,
may I offer you a miracle?
*
A single branch,
wraps around him,
gently generous.
*
And she beings to sing.
You lavender little liar,
loose the lust.
You lavender little liar,
dare to trust.
You lavender little liar, liar, liar, liar, liar, LIAR —
*
When she is done,
she is no longer tree,
but her soul is inside the soft, divine, forgiving, leaning, loving, alluring
body
of a woman.
*
Kiss me.
*
He does,
the silver on his lips bitter against her molasses,
and while he drinks,
starving,
she shrinks.
*
Won’t you see me?
Tend to me?
Water me?
Nurture me?
*
When they part,
the acorns and ash
and all that thick maroon,
are buried in the snow,
with the rest of the grass.
*
Waiting.
They always come back.
*
Your life was never yours to loose.
*
When he opens his eyes,
he is healed,
and then back on the battlefield.
*
When she opens hers,
her branches wilt,
her insides unbuilt,
but at least she got a taste
of that cinereal coating.
*
Hecate, Hecate, Hecate,
won’t you raise Hell for me?
I am far too exhausted,
to do it myself.
About the Creator
Kayla
just a writer having fun (:
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