Calico

She is painted protrusion jutting skyward,

feet planted firmly in silica substrate,

her kaleidoscope cacophony a constant companion to carnies,

purples melding with browns, the streaking symphony of her breasts rising with her breathing beneath the sunlight as she pokes up her head,
half-slumbering in some half-recollected riposte that ravages savages and stings so sweetly,

as honeysuckle burdened bees building bastion for their queen, quivering in quatrain formations, fully finessing fulcrum to swing in metronome, pulverizing poems into powder and insufflating them.

We fell in love the way vistas crest the horizon while you’re doing 80 on 34, threw caution to the wind to live with the consequence of opulence, spreading contemplations upon each others’ skins like coconut oil in sequestrations steeped in the spinning of tales in the limelight of our elocution.

But in the darkness of midnight, in melancholy reposes that paint passions poisonous, imposing wolves’ clothing on sheep, as she dispossesses every ecstasy cast in the moonless nights after my misplaced ardor spun in silken strands of stimulating dream stuff, made manifest at hand, fracturing reality on impact.

Reshift, reframe, rewire for a new page, regauged, mountain range so close yet out of reach, left with nothing but to be precious with poetry, yearning for this surcease, mired in the grief of unconscious cause of her indignation, waking to a poorer shift in paradigm, tasked with merely being patient but still I pine.