Sacred Synesthesia

After the sun has died

I look at the luminescence of animism

 

The color green as artifice is not green

The flowers in my mother's pot are white, yellow, and orange

     but, they lie in sequester and the boundary of  cylinder

 

This boundary is bondage

 

Am I alive to see this?

     This!

 

Only the cactus of scorching sand crevice will sing words of truth

     from the center of her body

 

For terror or beauty

Terror of explanation

Beauty of wordlessness

Coitus of words and wordlessness

 

 

[This is for public viewing, though not to be of profit to anyone but myself.]