02.05:053
AYLA NEWHOUSE
The Underworld
The sun withers and curls,
equality fades with morning
toast. Unsatisfied, what dreams
have taught: that crescendo,
lull, rhythm to being.
I dream high passions,
palms of lovers, a tangerine;
world sallow and seductive -
one taste and you'll cry blood
or butterflies.
The dream remains
as ocean's ebb,
faded northern lights,
a smile on the face of famine.
When you slide your
Ralph Lauren slippers
off the shine of satin sheets,
the moon crowns glaciers
above the poplars.
The shadow of dark
spreads its crooked fingers;
Dark unfolds in creases,
pours itself over wounds
from soundless guns.
In the end,
untouched by love,
unscarred by war,
we're all the same.
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