No dreaming on a bed of flowers.
Eyes, smooth as pearls, are agape but
Do not blink. Silent and blind, horses
Flitter by, their wings flashing midnight,
Hooves scratching milky ribs, the skin
Turning glitter-rough and heartbeat red.
There are strawberries littering my palms
Like constellations I can't make out.
I know what this is, I can feel it:
The hoping eyes, the twitching mouth,
The breast sighing like a wave, heavy
With desire. I know what this is, and
Then shards of an Apple strike me like bullets;
I grow tight as my hands grope for a way out.
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Le Petit Biographie
- Alexia
- I laugh, I live, I think, I write (not necessarily in that order)... padam, padam indeed, Ms. Piaf. This poetry is almost always spontaneous and almost rarely edited.
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