not a trace of the forbidden fruit in his bones,
not a trace of evil even if they tried
his cranium cracks open like rich soil
where roses grow too vibrant and dependent on their thorns
velvety, silky to the touch
it rattles the ribcage of his lover,
unleashes buried desires in his organs
igniting flames that prickle even the hairs of supple skin
bruised, black and blue
when they close the gap between the sky and earth,
and let chaos run amok once more,
only heat and cold coalescing
into the primordial understanding of all creation
is left to testify the wickedness embracing his lungs
—because love is not what he breathes
it is virtue that he seeks, wishes, craves
and only one believer is enough
to manifest the eden in his bones,
the goodness of what he encompasses
( dedicated to my babies wangxian )
7/01/20, 9:13 am
YOU ARE READING
RAINBOW VODKA
Poetrycreativity is just a blend of the [ a writing collection. ] truth and mistruth.
