Death is a daisy slumbering
by the fervent Madonna’s feet
And those thousand delicate scents,
Dusky as an armpit,
Crimson as a heart,
Slumber in the forms of naked women
Who rest in fields or wander streets
In quest of love’s faintly gilded strawberry.
Blue, Blue arose and fell.
Spiky, Thin whistled and sought to intrude, yet
did not pass through.
On every corner there was a din.
Fat Brown was ensnared, seemingly for eternity.
Apparently. Apparently.
Great big houses suddenly collapsed. Small houses
remained standing, unscathed.
A thick, hard, egg-shaped orange cloud hung suddenly
over the town. It seemed to dangle from the steep
steeple of the Town Hall tower, tall and angular, and
radiated violet.
The citizens heard a guttural cry. Which brought tears.
Profound feelings of great despair.
As some realized beneath fingers, a realm unfolds,
in keys and strings as a tale retold,
of Handel’s hand and heart’s decree
A symphony of pure esprit.
:: 05.12.2024 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 