Fat thunderclouds roll across clouded visions of a breast I once held dear.
where are you now woman?
Old skin wrinkles my mind.

Sitting in the dirt of Mother Earth next to her serpent
I worship the almighty sun, giver of life.

Take the time for sunrises and sunsets
the peaceful wind gently whispering melancholy.
I see hope in the empty spaces.

The poetry of the dead screams to be heard
high above the blinking lights
of routine madness
The serpent bites, and I close my eyes to the bloody truth of Frank O’Hara.


Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.