The semi-arbitral retells
a story about sentinels
that rustled, aligned a brook,
dimly, in checkered reds,
feebly coursing along
crocus flower beds.
Jet sleek plasters of arabesques,
not far yonder, meandering
easily extending further
than the eye could see.
Promiscuities sent in eternities;
gaseous promises in pitchers
of micro expressive remedies,
by those stuck to the promethean —
Varied pretenses supped down, vicariously.
The minutiae of blessings,
reissued as anathemas
that must have catered
to those of tattered loves.
They slipped within
that chipped away
Beetles of pivotal black iridescences discouragingly scour
bee tills of stillborn nectars: taken from hive syntaxes;
walkaways of no contests on full-petalled miniature roses.
Gardenias of strained ground almond waters, swish about
Nix’s proximity. He bathes those flowers, too weak to cleanse them,
engendering browning, evenly on brims of never met identifications.
Navigating through dismal grimoires, he hopes to find a way to inundate
yesterday’s misfortunes by mitigating unfinished cartographies. His
Legs rendered immobile from blinding machinations, controls at his feet.
Icy iris’ drawn
In ball pointed pens
In the blues of knowing.
Azure spite filled eyes
Filed in failed attempts
Of how my feet barely
Lifted off the unkempt,
Of how I kept rolling in
This same narrow lament.
Accusations that freeze and burn
When what I wanted was
To be free to run.
These watchful eyes, they burden
And forcefully surge; I swell. Feebly feeling
My make-believe golden wings warping,
Bending from the slightest bit of pressure
As they tell me how I had promised
Those naive fickle numbers.
I know what I said.
But while these eyes,
They bite and blister,
I know that I need them.