October 20, 2021 to November 1, 2021
from the full moon to the new moon in Libra / Scorpio
trust
Back to the wilder
from collapse
under stacks
of undecayed
inorganic
matter—
It’s all temporary
Underground digs
in sentiment trapped
Prone to lucid dreaming’s
involuntary maw
Steps into the yawn
of your own pitfall
Take to the trees
like Tarzan—climb
your agile mind—
swing from trust-
worthy vines
signifies
In his ghast and livid beam, no colors absorb; absence signifies his subject in virous torrents of rayed devastation.
I am spared—my eyes cauterized at first sight. Mere ash beside a vacuum, patient for the Spring. Cremains in the kindness of a friend.
cafe
I’m a tourist in their cafe
where they talk over a good song;
Collectors of the medium/ who trade
the pain of kids who don’t belong.
It bounces off the reclaimed beams—
factoids, brag, gimcrackery;
lathers popularity
without a sole
analogy/ of us
on the island of loneliness
innocence
Innocence is a gift—mingled in commitment—of passage.
It has been slain on the altar of infant helplessness sulked in vengeance.
It has been saved by the certainty of power relinquished in permanence.
One day you won’t give your heart to bargainers.
intimacy
At the corners of their bed sate epic tales of wind, fire, earth, and sky loving the anthropomorphized form of their senses, conjured from the aromatic pyre; a tinder nest, intimacy the tender.
Not even the fires of hell refined worked so well to warm the dead.
She was an accidentalist in one great big song about obedience.
More deistic than contrarian, because those small-town panderers just couldn’t be the gatekeepers of divinity.
They sounded more like creations of comedy.
hurt
“You’re being emotional and kinda paranoid,” Maena said. “Read the situation like a book.”
“Like look at a few words, jump to conclusions, and cry into my pillow?” Cere asked.
Maena smiled. “No, we don’t read books like the words are going to hurt us.”
foreshadow
In the afterglow
of a gamma-ray
burst/ in her hard
bright light
His silhouette whistles—
harsh foreshadow,
blocking the lumen;
inkling black hole,
a cold hero’s trope
sleepwalk
I sleepwalk & talk
expose the bare truth
that fear & pain
hang from the pall
that covers the life of day
Mantle worn by soothsayer
who blankets infantile babe
There, in low waves
while the mind hides
memories, ring words
of the dissembler:
vestments
unpicked to rags
©2021 LAFogle / Lesley Ann Fogle
