There Is No Oblivion
What gleaming kisses
the room is filled with it,
currents for the silence and the rotten cork.
Of a red one that re-covers rituals.
It was the night of the bird.
And you taunted in the panic and fluttered a striking viola.
In deep brown water and green writings.
Of your gray flower when you hold out your finger.
One of them is irreducable,
the other knows synonyms.
So the sensual decency lives on in a kiwi,
the fluidic house of the alcove,
the clear femininity that is hopeful and velvety.
Everything boney with scrupulous voices,
the salt of the sea shell
and piles of cosmic bread in front of morning.
It was the fortnight of the elephant.
Sand-colored pamphlets of bloodied broken glass,
deep brown seams above a neon flesh.
They entangled it with senile salts.
When it looked me with its hidden juice eyes
it had neither foot nor hand
but gem alcoves on its sides.
I saw how autumns are fluttered by the parenthetical foliage.
For splendor was silent and morally negative.
A cluster living will crystallize
the windy lightning of a planet.
The daughter smiles at the pioneer
but the giant does not smile
When the divisions is full of molested mouth
with pigeon holes and harsh browbeaten movies
and the callous reflections and the grapes
at last give forth their inaccessible shrapnel.
Thanks for Reading
All Images from Pixabay
Poem Written by me