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
with the perfume of sweet Lilac breath.
Song composed in olfactory sensation.
"Come Home"