How long since the feeding.
How long since the fragrance on the mouth of lilac
and quiet freedom.
I am curled against my self awareness
somewhere far away, the mad dog of eternity sits waiting
to collect my freckled footsteps,
moaning and sighing up from the ground.
Rose petal tea. I am wearing ivory cream sheets,
gazing out across
the sliding rain
through the burning bedroom window.
Purple ivy over stained glass clouds,
picture frames cutting off
my gray hands.
Smoking cigarettes made of fog,
drawing frankincense from
the throat
of all the silent kinds of
threats.
And so the day begins
to fall upon the slope of my shoulder blades,
sitting here alone
above a strange
world.
.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 