Every morning, she'd navigate
the sadness, the dark soup
of her brain.
Mountains of floral bedspreads
and broken disco balls.
Still, everything was bare.
Bone-dry.
A dull tinkling of piano keys
in her stomach.
A flurry of stained-glass windows
and black ballerina flats.
A low, rumbling thunder in her ribs.
Too many syllables in the sentences
he gave her.
Too many satin ribbons.
The blue jazz she'd wear like a dress.
Somewhere, a red orchid.
A violent flashing on the horizon.
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Author:
toniscales (
Offline) - Published: February 27th, 2026 02:16
- Category: Surrealist
- Views: 3
- In collections: My Work.
Offline)
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