Pomegranate Sun

Aching for days of pomegranate sun

but the heat fills the hollow
of the shell that we've shined.

I've plastered my soul to the
trappings of ounces of blood that
we've wrung.

Sucking and spitting slug cinders
makes eye contact inevitable
in the drainage of dung.

Bleeding burnt embers
empty the pebbles.

There's a philia flow
from the bellows that blown.

Awakened by screams of splendor
untapped, I reject

cryptic connections with
the teachings of my past.