Poetry

my heart is as sour as a poet's should be

as sour as poetry

It drips of the meagre sounds of its own reflection

the stuttering gasp of wind's perfect complexion

i collect shadows and fill them in balloons

cup them in my arms with bent elbows and craving fingers

-one? or two spoons?-

as my overly-honeyed tea condenses through to the back of my epiglottis

my hands must wrap their fingers around it

around the ribbons jailing the breath of these balloons

my arms hold them close to the pit at the bottom of my belly

they are overworked

and I drink,

with the sour zest of poetry

lemons plucked not from the branch, but the root

they are fresher that way,

the right amount of ripe

and sour

i rinse them of their grainy skin-like texture

under the almost-warmth of the august sun

in a blue rubber pool

of a somewhat similar texture

or so say my arms

they are overworked

and I swim,

in the sour zest of poetry

i cut a slice from my arm, hoping that it is delicious

it is not.

but if these arms are all that I have

i will hold in their embrace

the sun that i stole from autumn;

for that is your heart

and mine?

nestled and asleep

in the veins threading my arms

they are overworked

and I burn,

in the sour zest of poetry

the night sky

tender,

covered

under its sheets of tin

but how do i veil your moonless sky?

the linen is tucked out of the edges of the bed

I must reach my arms up and out

the stars sting

and the breath warms

they are falling asleep

the children

they have found the milk

I cradle them

against the melting earthen pots of my elbows

behind my arms

they are overworked

and i touch

the sour zest of poetry

~jhinuk

#poetry #poems #parallelsinpoetry