'Twas a sight today. Did me feet trample the same stone, the ceiling hath I known for too long a time, if art two decades too long for one to say. 'Twas a sight today.
Was it not on Dickinson's epistle, nor Plath's Lazarus, nor Keats' green grass;
Oh! 'Twas not on Gibran's intensity of words, and painful was it for me to nod when asked me Wordsworth if it was him that I had my body shivering for today. Alas!
Was there something wrong? What? What? What I queried again and again.
Oh Holy Grace did let slip a drop of elixir on my copy of Dickinson's poetry where was there a plucked lash of my eyes for my eyes to behold.
Was it the indication. 'Twas the urge for me to heed. And hear. And sing.
So shivered my lips in cold, and harked my ears a tune familiar in their cold-cold quiver.
My lips were dry. My lips art dry. Brown and black and soupcon of skin wearing out of the flesh is that red.
Underneath where my fingertips can touch, and right where none else's ever can, it that bloody red - gory crystals of Ruby for me to kiss incessantly.
Oh my God and Oh my Goddesses! Oh Holy Trinity watching me from the crevices that heaven also bears! Yes, is heaven also scarred for me in this eventide. Should I be punished for I might have sinned? Will I carry out my ablutions in pursuit of absolute purity with freezing water from the sky.
How can I deny that hurts me deep the thought of looking up in the firmament and not finding you staring at me?
How can I spurn my cognizance of thy watchful appraisal of every step I tread for art You in me everywhere, kissing my wounds with lips that feel lukewarm on them - how careful not to maul it aymore nor let any maul me?
Oh I am so aware. Oh I am so aware.
Art my legs draped in trews of deep and pale pink, spots of white the company of the shade, but not so to accompany. What keeps them asunder I do not know. Do You? Is it a blasphemy?
This music is close to my face now. Is it inside my mouth? Where else does it come from? Oh I am insane.
'Tis at the chorus that opens my jaws; hath they lost the teeth and cannot recall how to teethe.
'Tis at the utterance of a voice of another. Sings it " Aurora and sad prose...Wisteria grow... bare feet...in years". I let my jaws drop and raise they themselves high up to eat the sky.
A wonderful duet performed by a piano and a piccolo.
A made-in-heaven collection from vintage Wendy House of instruments for kids. Can I play here a little while?
In terms of rhythm and rhyme pattern, and on and on and on it went...
Este and Prits in my mind! Alas! I am gobsmacked for art these faces well acquainted with me, but I want to deny.
Alack! "How have you both been?", do I wish to ask, a good girl as must I be, but "Who art thee?", in lieu I surmise.
Lackaday, art they here now.
Lackaday, I invited them.
Lackaday! Must I greet them? No! No? Where art my manners now? Where my mother has gone I do not know you see as will they see.
May I let alone bother the time when she finds me amidst the Ivy climbers and bushes art that drenched in a hue of bottle green, with a darker disguise on the apparel of a light color for it has rained already in here.
I am on a seafaring adventure.
Heck! Am I not the captain. Not at all!
Only floating and lying that I am swimming, these tiny waves hitting me everywhere so softly.
'Tis an eventide today when see my eyne lights at a distance, and they sparkle on my iris through the black lashes dangle that on the extremity of their lids.
Yes, I see the tungsten burn and sparkle in a surreal white - what a dream!
Yes, I behold the glass swelter and shine the flicker of a star from in betwixt the lash of both my eyes.
It the former lash safe in the centrefold of the pages hath that been stained with sepia over a few hours of my evening.
May I love them now?

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