Sip from the skull of a lantern moth—
she glows like lullabies for lunatics.
Your tongue is a flag of forgotten nations;
let it burn beneath the violet bell.
The floor is made of violins—
don’t step unless you’re ready to waltz
with your childhood scars.
Bite the fruit that hums.
Let the peel tattoo your thoughts.
And when the ceiling starts to whisper,
listen closely—
it knows your true name.
They told you the windows were safe—
but they were lies shaped like glass.
Step through the echo.
Drink the feather.
Blink twice if your hands are dreams.
And when the conductor
in a coat of clocks
offers you a ride to the silence,
say yes.
Say yes,
even if the sky
begs you not to.
:: 05.20.2025 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 