The craquelure of
the leaves beneath her feet;
they never felt this way before.
The gilt, vermeil,
makes for better crowns,
but she can't forget the old ones:
littered, twisted shards
upon the floor.
Grenade like a pomegranate,
pomegranate like a grenade
in her hand; gripped,
a narcissus, a necklace of
their seeds to kiss
her neck like snowflakes;
crossing her, blessing her.
Doesn't she know they melt
when she goes?
He thought of them as jewels
to dig up, to bury, to admire.
His, all his, but not his at all.
She was once whole,
now she is spring/summer/
autumn/winter.
Split, like gemstones;
the garnets he gave her.
The blood, translucent,
of the dewdrops
on the flowers that day.
YOU ARE READING
Fields of Asphodel
PoetryA poetry collection inspired by mythology, nature, and poetry itself. The style will be a bit different to what I wrote for Clockwork Lives, but I feel personally that it is an improvement. :)
