A Walk with Butterflies by glossolalias, literature
Literature
A Walk with Butterflies
September is violent.
It keeps its mild weather
beneath bled clouds and branches,
some splitting pears on sidewalk
sweet like dumpster water,
a brash disillusionment
turned gold
then red then brown:
sixteen pinpricks of ooze
sliding off rubber.
I am violent: compressing image
into seeds and imagining laws
of creation, squeaking
behind the name
of Jesus,
or maybe it was a fly
birthed from
rot,
but he is violent: and September
leaves to come again
with a color,
one I can't fathom.
If you drink enough vodka it tastes like love by grew-up-a-screw-up, literature
Literature
If you drink enough vodka it tastes like love
He’d whisper sweet nothings to trees
Hoping the roots would remember his name
I watched him drop pieces of himself like bread crumbs
His lantern limbs quivering
I don’t think he ever really knew how lovely he was
And on a sunny day when the pavement was sweating
Out onto the roadside
Everyone else found out too
I don’t think I’ll ever forget him because he was like a dream catcher
So quiet and magical in the way his eyes turned green in the dark
And blue in the winter
Like he stored the world’s secrets behind his cuckoo spit heart
Seasons and parking lots. by Skyangel13, literature
Literature
Seasons and parking lots.
The afternoon sun shines brightly
on the asphalt, where cigarettes
and empty beer bottles glisten
in warmth and comfort.
Snow drifts line the parking
lot, blocking paths and escape
routes that are easily accessible
during summer months
of freedom and deep green eyes.
My fingernails dig deep into
the flesh of my palms, reminding
me that spring has just begun,
but my heart is still wrapped in
Athens and the chill of December.