ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Black is an entirely
impractical colour, it soaks
up
all this sunshine, this
July heat. It burns us -
stains us –
a gold that refuses
to glitter.
we undergo
a small, shrivelled
transformation. We wilt,
scatter pollen in the dust
where rivulets of tears
evaporate.
halos form around our
faces, we glow with
sweat.
it is hard to believe in
a cool, trickling
Heaven when we are no more
than dried husks of corn...
when a tire sits rotting
among the lifeless grass.
So we try to close our eyes
and imagine little green shoots
sprouting
on the grave. The snows of
next January melting, waking
tiny white flowers. Little buds
among the ashes.
but then we remember:
it never snows in Texas.
impractical colour, it soaks
up
all this sunshine, this
July heat. It burns us -
stains us –
a gold that refuses
to glitter.
we undergo
a small, shrivelled
transformation. We wilt,
scatter pollen in the dust
where rivulets of tears
evaporate.
halos form around our
faces, we glow with
sweat.
it is hard to believe in
a cool, trickling
Heaven when we are no more
than dried husks of corn...
when a tire sits rotting
among the lifeless grass.
So we try to close our eyes
and imagine little green shoots
sprouting
on the grave. The snows of
next January melting, waking
tiny white flowers. Little buds
among the ashes.
but then we remember:
it never snows in Texas.
Literature
summer children, we were'
ii.
we carved animals
from ivory castles
floating in the sun. we were
the doting spring mayflies
twisting upon meadows,
wreathing lilies between
toes, breathing --
iii.
between the sheets
of golden chaff,
she whispered, "let's dance in the rain
on the cobblestone streets
before the singing rosebud
mutes her swollen gown.'
:
past the shivering
moon we snuck
with shadows tucked
into dreams. we were
waltzing toy soldiers,
our peace-broken holster
Literature
good weather for fishing
.
He thinks it is good weather for fishing.
The second woman
with old hair and powder made from crushed seashells
sips swamp water from the mouth of the man with a flat Crow nose
and he culls her hair with hands, not his alone,
turning her neck into a cornstalk leaning,
whispering "Bia, Bia".
He tells the other one, in stockings rolled to her ankles,
that the Whip-poor-will was out last night halving babies
from moonstones, into the dirt they come from.
And yes, he saw the fox swallowing
up the road with scatterpaws,
a fishing
Literature
The Weeds Of My Sentiments
I figured that if I picked the dandelion
blossoming from the cavity of my heart
as I lay here a cadaver
in the body farm
harvesting the remnants
that if I let the wind catch the seeds
that I hold here in my skeletal hand
maybe as the wind relocates me
an oblivion just before Epiphany
I won't be one black fist, grinding love into a fine meat paste
to be fed to the children of the harvest
they who have vulture's necks and crow's beaks
I hear them clawing at the doors
carrying fate inside
Suggested Collections
I have this strange obsession with hot, sunny funerals...
© 2007 - 2024 Striped-Candycane
Comments4
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by =DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here: [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by
ing the News Article. Keep writing and keep creating.
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by
ing the News Article. Keep writing and keep creating.