All we have of those dreams that made us drool,
Are flacky stains etched on pillow cases..
A Broody Hen
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Her cheeks are crimson tenders of red with magical dimples ,delicate landscapes of concaves..
..her eyes are crystal hugeness, beaded like glaring convex..
You can see them vertebrate ,ciliary muscles taut to accommodate distance..
..I can’t fathom the depths of this trance ,she occasionally steals me a glance…little Tinkerbells doing back flips in her lens ….muscles slack she blushes, as if between her retina and optical nerve exist a Kingdom of fairies ,the side of her cheeks hollows ..her lip flowers blooms ,her decay infested teeth glows….sparks on the spectacles firmly fixed down the bridge of her nose….
In a distance,echoes of her luring voice…
“Africa…” It gets hoarse,I wake up..
Shaken by a psychiatrist nurse,
“You’re are next.”
…across me, in the wall is a chart of a muscled skeletal of a woman.
Everything but laundry and groceries.
Soul Embedded In Writing