ConsolationKelsey Dean
The sky is a hundred thousand freckles. A neck is an unnecessary root: couldn’t a head untethered float upward to whisper in the ear of that doting moon? Her silver beams keep coming back around. O, that knowing gleam. O, these venomous threats quieted by the silent drip of brightness. Who needs to face a human face when the night is an open palm offering. When its vastness could swallow the sea. Wouldn’t it be a solace to see that brined violence of traitors undone? Every constellation is a story, a web, a wiggling chorus of lines conjoined. How simple it seems to rewrite the burden, to make this halo of hissing points of starlight & me a glimmering whole. |
|
|
|
Baubles From Bones © 2025
|