The leaves once coursing with rubber
make not a single crackle,
the dirt, not a whisper.
There is no tremor in the air
once heavy with drops of perspiration
and growth’s battle for light.
Her underbelly leaves stillnesssssss
makes the mighty Lupana shrivel
into the wisped sword plant.
She fills the overgrown place,
reducing it to slivers of insignificance.
And I watch the hexagons swirl in endless song.
the cyan honeycomb,
the cylinder of my existence
Her slithering whirlpool threatens the hairs
on a skin I cannot shed.
A coiled casket now sealed, seamless.
She smiles a scythe,
sepia tongue inciting a forked choice.
A forgotten breath catches in my esophagus.
the oldest emeralds,
slits that sear history
They are my soul guides to her ceaseless swivel
as the bed of dirt encrusted seeds succumbs
to my designed constriction.
her sensitive slink,
sends me sinking
Darker, heavier, freer;
Turquoise, Cerulean, Indigo;
until I am a statue in the deepest sand.
her home,
silenced by midnight’s waves leagues above
Cold’s careless caress,
creeps deliberate, like the age-old stone,
against the crevices of my marrow’s core.
but until the end
she lets me see
the symphonies of jade
stealing me
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