Nectar Stalks

"It's left to the dreaming mind..."

Late into the charcoal-gray

-after the stroke of the twentieth-hour

...the voices emerge, from darkened shadows

When one would expect, a deafening hour



The screams echo the ruins, the benches of account,

the anchor

of mountain escapism...



I stood asleep to the cross-walk, the circuit of musing

haloed silently, like a cradle song, rustling through the cracks

of crumpled minds...



Masquerade thoughts flew upwards, never touching the

temperateness of the moon...disguises worn heavenward,

instead of down-field...

For the hour hid no one, and not one would dare evolve a

antithetical conceptualization... the road-stead they drove by,

the elevations they hid within...



Utterances soared the icy ponds,

like Danseuse's on cloud nine

with gloom wrapped around their tongue's...

leaving figure

eights, and circles of love...



Overlooking what there souls were saying, they carried on...



Leaving footprints in the diamond covering,

hands in the

snowy grounds....

there breadths exhaling

Capricorn dreams



Returning back to what they all knew...

home...sweet...home

Where nectar grows from large stalks,

and love swims upon empathy's

flesh... glistening through

the plateau's of yesteryear....



(c) Karen D.

Reviews

[DepthWriter]

Thank YOU!

[Incendiary Grievances]

You have amazing word usage, and it contributes to your imagery beautifully. Really great piece.