By Mimi Caneda Mata
Pour me into the casualty,
Of nonchalant unheard of spaces,
I cannot sink the sunlight so ready to blind;
I want the pungent taste of licorice fields and the drench…
Of a half moon rising.
I will not be left with such little gray,
I like the controversy of a solemn thought;
Riding out the dew and the submerge,
With the color and drought of my ungracefulness…
I am more feel to a fingertip this way.
I can see a disfiguring; receding,
Into a bitter cloud with nonetheless sweet approval…|
Taste to the lips the matrimony of universal gradual salt,
What kind of oppositional virtue is poured into a stone chalice?
A makeshift leaf; turned over,
Pummeling when brought to my lips…
What else is there to intoxicate me?
Other than the form of your shadow?…
Turn to me and allow me to raise,
Your pipeline soul to tunnel my east winds…
Held up high you are marvelously consuming all that writhes,
Continuously, overturning the whispering turbulence;
Into a sudden quake of calm…
What a prince; my uneasy rider.
You are a baffling corridor,
That splinters into metal,
Something sturdy to uproot the diligence of a daffodil;
My roses emerge this way…
I am not the softest shade of red.
I cannot sink the sunlight so ready to blind,
With the color and drought of my ungracefulness,
I want the pungent taste of licorice fields and the drench;
Of a half moon rising,
I am more feel to your fingertips this way…
My prince; my uneasy rider.