Beyond the hollowed out graves and over the tundra

the young babes nestled close to keep warm.

The mountains cried every time the orange

sun cast itself away behind the dust of the purple sky.

The stars chewed on the moon, until all was white.

Then tiny droplets of lust flowed from the alps to the sea,

and the garden of Eden bore fluorescent strange fruit.

From the fire and ash arose what crystals are made of.

The bark crisped and curled to brittle streaks,

and the rust tiger lilies twisted in their breath.

Contoured by the swirl of darkness in the night,

sprouted the hungry beasts amidst the shrike.

Like an artists den the purple paint smeared

over the earth and brushed itself with auburn

rays. The feathery nest took itself apart one twig

at a time, and the bones were stained with pink gloss.

2 thoughts on “Gloss

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