A Brassy Catharsis

 



The silence, my temple,
was broken by apples
of gravity’s eyelids
peering down upon porcelain, 

As shapes, all the while
made inches of movement
still eyeing the citrine
left behind mother’s pictures.

The glints of near-silver
came flashing in tandem
like fun-sized steel bullets
being fired by ether.

Awash in the cold chills;
think colder than brimstone
in still frozen nether
below blue moon tidings,

A long witching hour
seemed over when muzak
had filtered my shivers
with brassy nostalgia.

With Dawn on her tiptoes,
I felt a bit better,
knowing she’d embrace me
and whisper in poems.