Synesthesia lens brekadrown of poem from years ago
Circus is orange, a bright orange
That’s why it is best friends with chartreuse because they have fun together
They are pranksters.
Irony is spelled in black, in
Typewriter print. Sometimes there is a shadow.
An apricot is the softer older sister of circus
Mostly because it is the same color, but softer.
Except it has hair
to trick you
when you bite into it,
So your teeth become itchy
A wannabe peach, an older sister of prankster circus.
It was love. It was love and you were sure of it, dreadful of the blooming cavity in your heart, filling and sinking like an inconsistent tide. It washed over you, dragging in fragmented images of her.
No one looks like a villain once dead.
There is no threat in a lifeless body,
In screaming mothers and weeping daughters.
Once exposed, his blood is no longer poison.
She was born in the radiation era,
A veil of marble covers her eyes,
Her lids webbed in waves:
They were stitched too tight
to permit the penetration
of the perpetrator.
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