By Noah Rymer
pressings of dead flowers
fragrant slight color dried
these burnt oaks dream
sky melting deep inside
midnight seeps into day
as blood blossoms into milk
flowers break violent harvest
pink petals swirling their ilk
spiraling into drained eyes
whiter than bone splinters
dark countenance their tinctures
pale visages severance lies
concentric cycles spinning
shadows over the cave walls
pagan dances of Walpurgis nights
Bacchanal lives lost in it all
eternal bliss caught in fragments frowned
shattered like arcs of lightning tall
over glass sensually struck down
cast like Lucifer gaining his loveless crown
the joy and the pain exist inseparable
I sigh for it all for those lost within
such things but our own original sins
ourselves irreparably lain and destroyed
Noah Rymer is a Virginian poet/writer who is trying to channel the high strangeness that surrounds him. He is also the Editor-In-Chief of Pere Ube, as well as an undergrad working diligently towards his degree in Pataphysics. You can find his work online.
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