the general population sketches
the walls of hell in red.
the dirt of the world before
we were born, glitters for us slowly
on the ground in which we thought
we would shine,
the pavement marked with blood,
the chalk a mark of our life,
after we are dead
Poe renders hell with shades of
charchol and matte black
ghouls and ravens ring
the bells upon the entrance
reminding us that where the grey
pencil is marked, there is no shading
directing us back
the gates of heaven shimmer
with fuzzy light. milky arches painted soft
in coffee-less cream. where there are
warm greetings from cherubs whispering
welcomes and booming new rose buds
and eating saccharine peaches rooted
in weeds and generational hypocrisy
the door stand tall and holy
adorned in pearls, ridden of sin
that shines with underneath us
and turns us black, red or gold.
rewarded for muteness,
we have rotten underneath
with the bible as we watch it
mold.
i saw a bird once that let go
of waste in the form of hope.
canary yellow unlike Poe’s
gloom. irony shatters slowly below
and cryptic silence smeared white
shrieks in delight, and streaks
his wings with the wind he rides
the rest below is unknown, while
the truth swims in the tides
yellow blood that doesn’t grow
old with the rest of beauty,
on the white morning,
while you’re barely breathing
if you listen closely, you can
hear them calling.
under yellow light, the spectrum
is decaying. the wise hue of
canary shines through murmurs of
bleached apologies. and when
you think how lovely it is
to be color blind, to color over
the shaded memory, your eyes
sprayed in foul graffiti
underground
in a casket
the motion of repetition
the application of forget
the exhubernce of regret,
the sheen of the pearl
rotting with the rest of them
