How it decays—

a legacy lost in a hundred days.

Castanets sprung,

I loved him too much; too much to outrun

a part of me.

In the thundered rays of thick ecstasy,

’found this sound—this

chorus clapping—pounding me its damnedest;

and, now, it stays.

A misery—a son spotted—he plays

black keys like eyes

roamin’ the clay. Eyes opened cloud like skies

wrinkled with care.

Things led through days, like hot breath, burn lips bare.

Wishing my Self

out of there, I dare become someone else

who disobeys,

with purple privilege, Love’s ricochets.

Hornets astir,

if we are thornless, who is lonelier?