flit

it is a dark flitting thing,
can turn the black sky white-grey/gray
soft sheets into fluffy clouds
that wrap tightly around the neck
blue blood into red rivers,
wet mouths into dry tourniquets,
skeleton trees into shimmering ravens,
forever seeking what’s not here.

i called it love once.

but it was only the distorted reflection
of me in your late night pane.
if i were a gothic policeman,
perhaps i could arrest it
with painted handcuffs
as it rests briefly
on the lucid ledge,
plotting its next move.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: