Levin Bolts of
Making knots designed as beaded macramé.
Where the breath of her passion resided as velvet…
He pulled tightly to create the desisting tight rope.
Suspension holds time’s compass in momentary stillness.
Strangling her stalwart voice into shadows fading halter,
he thought he was the concessions to know her deathbed…
But his blind hatred failed to see through the singing forest,
as her mind continued onward fluting pine cones to hymn.
She flew with limber wings upon the tree tops as a whisper;
Offering her postulant soul to liberate the sonorous storm clouds…
…apparitions are more than levin bolts of fulmiaic fire spheres
igniting disclosures of nearby dry brush.
Forcing his jute death trap into personal revelations,
momentums snapped back upon new stones with his ionic fist…
Trapping his begot “flesh-hyde” into the huntresses of bondage;
Within the diaphanous appendages of sacristies traveling sloths;
The flames engulfing his insalubrious spirit,
designed hanging baskets
as his empty screams could be heard for miles upon endless miles…
© Poetry by: Victoria L. McColley© Vickie L. McColley © Vickie L. Mccolley | Dreamstime.com
Body, Mind & Spirit
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