miyako73
01-12-2017, 07:14 PM
Clicking her disposable lighter to fire up and burn
the bulbous bottom of the glass pipe, she thought
of the men shot in the streets and left on the roads
and those women wrapped in brown packing tape,
she wondered about the projectiles cracking skulls
and the adhesion of ductile plastic swathes on skin.
Smoke swelling and covering her cheeks and chin,
her eyes roaming, on the walls the waves, the gulls,
the portrait of sorrow on the shore, and the drape,
unwashed muslin, incandescent peach, her odes
about quiet blankness, the desolation she sought
to think and write, she had made the room her urn.
A homage to the hero who wrote: “Dying is to rest,”
Sylvia perished from her own conclusion—a quest.
the bulbous bottom of the glass pipe, she thought
of the men shot in the streets and left on the roads
and those women wrapped in brown packing tape,
she wondered about the projectiles cracking skulls
and the adhesion of ductile plastic swathes on skin.
Smoke swelling and covering her cheeks and chin,
her eyes roaming, on the walls the waves, the gulls,
the portrait of sorrow on the shore, and the drape,
unwashed muslin, incandescent peach, her odes
about quiet blankness, the desolation she sought
to think and write, she had made the room her urn.
A homage to the hero who wrote: “Dying is to rest,”
Sylvia perished from her own conclusion—a quest.