Monday, June 4, 2012

Postmortem Nonfiction

Burning in the bright kidney bean sun
i twisted my navel upwards.
as it grew like flower stem,
a sterling blossom quivered
at the pinnacle of perfection.
my words only congealed
and my words only sparked
flames like that of a dove shot
down by red hot arrows.
A burning dove is a real phoenix.
To see a bird burn is a bad omen.
It is ever so rare.
Just like the rarity of me smiling.
It is even rarer to see me parasailing.
And yet, one time it has been done.
I'll not lead on to say more
except without no words
that burnt my navel's bud,
is Icarus to flight is
love is to mud.
I slip between grass blades.
I suffer like rocks buried
beneath the dirt.

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