Porcelain Beds

A little something I came up with, on a whim. Enjoy? (:

Is it love or life that comes to fruition when light resembles dark

and scars flower like mushrooms in a close patch of greens,

blanketing sky and moon in ash or wonder, the latter sprinkled

on balding heads to scold stretched skin, cheeks like flushed marble

and rose stems, gobbling security from the inside hollows between

 

fine lined chaos, stalks of water gripping an arm and hugging metal

clanks of a shadow- less room or abode, the preference relying

on tiers of tears, groping a face hardly or not at all, when simply existing

becomes routine chore; gowns and quilts sheltering stoned blood

in a casket of basil scented memories, where they shall lie alone.