The gilt gold burnish of youth rested well on him,
like little else.
But rest was not a verb
that hurricane boy often entertained.
His heart-beat was a war drum;
his lanky teenage legs
the flag poles
of a crimson revolution.
His eyes were cool pools
in the heat of summer.
Still, shallow,
laden with rocks underneath.
His hands were a forest fire.
Razing through spring petals
and tree trunks
too fragile to withstand the flames.
The boy was poison
in a pretty package.
And what he couldn't drown or burn,
he knew his lips could damn near decimate.
(And on his tongue, I tasted rebellion.)
ESTÁS LEYENDO
supine thoughts
PoesíaPoetry exploring thoughts into love, sexuality, mental health and navigating the modern world.
