Purple Scented Locust Wings
The mountainside becomes both cradle and coffin in which I am delivered into the dirt. I fall asleep in the fields of braided grass to the songs of the grasshopper. The singing of strings sung from bowed legs and cello wings Causing romance to flourish as the sun settles to sleep. (Now the moon takes lead in the dance.) I am estranged from the concrete skin, of converged rubber and oil blood, of sugar cane and corn consciousness. Only bliss sleeps here, with butterfly lips. Placing pollen kisses on petals of jasmine and honeysuckle, (nectar stains appear upon the protrusion of sweet words) I can feel my wings unfurl as I step out further from the cityscape. This dripping black nightmare has washed away as I fly into the arms of the mother. These wings are not those of fowl friends, but the stained glass of locust limbs. I stretch these forth towards the sun, and the light shines through. The mountains are calling my name in synesthetic color and smell ...