In a night of vestigial heartbeats, when the moon coiled like brittle ropes around the towers of the night I heard golden rumors that melted like liquid ore and were forgotten in whispers of vermilion shadow laced too thickly across the twilight. Desperate hands reached uniformly through the strata of curly, languid harpies and the heaviness, the sweet decay of pounds of flowers and stems it was them again that took the hardest fall. You, balcony, a hard heart later, you crawled up to me, and I leaned on the firmness of your ledge, dreading the waking of reality, as Morning Glories twined around me, a heavy golden cream of necessity, and we tumbled arm in arm into the garden.
I've been reading it a few times a day, over the last few days, trying to comment but getting distracted by the cubicle world... finally, a chance opened... I liked the surreal imagery you used (petals, petals, everywhere), how it gave an elusive nature to the whole piece... like I get pictures of a scene, yet they're all skewed like a drunken, or even repressed event. This piece shines, to me. Thanks for sharing it, been missing your presence (or presents) of late!
damn, it almost gave me an orgasm! i loved it. especially, "Desperate hands reached uniformly through the strata of curly, languid harpies and the heaviness, the sweet decay of pounds of flowers and stems it was them again that took the hardest fall."
Such beautiful chorded breaths of inspiration interlaced as delicate and heavy soaring hues. I loved the whole work.
