nymph

leaden words on your lips, white etching on the wood —
revile the wicked, beware your toes, they snap in the shadows —
nonsense, your voice drips. dips. regard the good.
don’t you see the cream spotting the path? the moss
is dappled in sun, veiled in virtue.
my feet sink into the dirt. but the etching on the wood —
revile the wicked, beware your toes, they snap in the shadows —
I curl my fingers against the bark. a nymph.
I find myself catching a glimpse
of green eyes in green leaves. let her be, your voice lifts.
she will not hurt you. here, a kiss will set your ease.
what is wicked is not to be believed.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

The Lotus-Eaters

Lotus-eatersIn sleep
there are no mysteries
that dash and dim the glass of dreams.

In sleep
there are just reveries
that unwind the truth for what it seems.

Come sleep,
and drink sweet lethargy.
Come sleep,
and taste our apathy.

This lotus smells of yesterday.
(A portside sigh, fare her goodbye).
Wake up, you are a castaway!
(Tastes of bliss, don’t forget her kiss).
Bodies on the beach recline
(What was before? Are we ashore?),
drunk off the gods’ own wine
(No need to know; you need to slow).
Wake! To Ithaca we sail in force!
(Islanders pry, ‘lie under sky’).
North winds: blown us from our course!
(Fruit they bear, soft sleep ensnares).
Get up, you reek of lotus flower.
(There’s no return, the berry burns).
Get up, this is your final hour.
(Roused too early, weep bitterly).

Come sleep,
and drink sweet lethargy.
Come sleep,
and taste our apathy.

In sleep
there are no mysteries
that dash and dim the glass of dreams.

In sleep
there are just reveries
that unwind the truth for what it seems.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe