..And there were golden letters.
[Can I finally tell you?]
Like streams lapping mossy brooks,
To which my gloss rolled over.
In spite my anarchy,
My self propulsion…
Towards your grace.
I left slipping,
Jumping to and fro
Unto my broken jaw,
Lifelessly turning me over
Into airbrushed aluminum oxide.
Geometrically tracing
My bloodless sorrow
Into triangles
[Non-conducive triangles]
That weaved my sorrow
Into perfect pitches
[Acute pitches]
Hallowing my desire
Into five unspoken pledges,
Five needle point succulents
Layering my borders
Like foggy rolling alcoves
Set deep amongst
Cool summer’s afternoon
Wheeping willow rushes
– faint memories about this seascape –
But my layered angles sheltered me
From petty hearts that soothed me
To make my sleepless nights
Ever lonely, evermore.
A riddle I can’t play just so.
But lighting candles
That broke into my bedroom
And watched my brow quiver
As morning wretched it’s yawning
About the dusty trails,
I traced an even pathway
In triangles, forever faster
Until my morning had at last come
Filled with ancient rhythm.
Eyes so better clearer
Than one thousand lenses focused
On a heart so muddy [clearer].
I held onto my breath
Until anxious had subsided,
For I could not remember
What words had come before it.
And in such built excitement
A heart did flutter on,
Lost but not forgotten
Into books of golden letters
– Bound with broken arrows –
That felt so narrow holding
Pieces of leather’d sorrow
[Remember bloodless triangles]
That wept a stainless trail
From deep within desperation
Into worn hands of a savior
Who whittled out a triangle
To feed alotted perscriptions
With ever nimble fingers
Soaked in rosé water
And dried with ancient scrolls
Written in a forgotten language
That told of a lost soul
Who pledged a life to quill
Written in golden letters
And tied with broken arrows.
Words he’d lost to scrolls.
A heart he’d bled for food scraps
To feed his lifeless voodoo doll
Filled with needled pin holes
And scarred with a single triangle
Between worn out eye holes.
And written just below it
In tiny golden letters
Was ‘dia de la muerte’,
And the eyes all turned to sun
That grasped their holy language,
Blinding them to forgiveness
In smokeless trans-am tires
With a golden eagle flying.
This was not the end of stardust,
Not a burning pledge for Satan,
Not midnight’s showdown in dusty boots.
This was the last redemption hour,
A stained wedding gown and laughter.
And two boots made of leather
Tied tight with broken arrows,
Tracing triangles in the dirt
At gun points scary tremor.
Written neatly in a book
In perfect golden letters
Signed only with a triangle.