she’s a croissant made of moondust
on Carpathian rug’s edge,
torso ascending and sinking
on autopilot, engine
a lax purRrRr.
my pen’s point rests atop
e m p t y parchment page,
into blackh⚫le, beckons
me to descend into oblivion
just like her.
There is Hades’ fury burrowed
into those smile lines,
Black holes in your sky eyes.
A micro fisherman sits
in your sailboat of a smile.
Your tongue, the bait.
Those who you thought
Were closest to you
are like starving fish,
drawn to your every word,
but even when they suck
that tongue dry,
they’re still famished.
Your eyes don’t drizzle,
nor do they pour—they monsoon
at the thought of others deeming
you as evil just because you wear
darkness on your sleeve
better than most.
It’s a crime to think that a human
is all good or that a human is all evil.
Those who have figuratively killed men
have still loved their children,
saved bumblebees from drowning
in pools, helped their arthritic
neighbor rake leaves.
(Those who have actually killed in the name of cold blood…
Were their hearts always that Arctic cold?
I’m still having a hard time having compassion for everyone,
especially the ones who wronged in ways that leach hope from humanity.)
Those who have loved wholly and deeply
have still lied when it served them,
walked past homeless women
and didn’t spare a single coin
from their jingling pockets,
drove past a turtle attempting
its suicide tread across sliver
of rush-houred highway.
So the next time you see
some Hades behind someone’s stare,
know that you’re no different.
Light isn’t a standalone beacon.
Darkness is her companion;
the reason why we keep seeing stars.
I may be a Minotaur now, but I know I’m meant to be Theseus.
My inner labyrinth will soon become a clear night sky…
I feel it in the marrow of every bone.