They wallow into the shadows
wriggling like caterpillars
Hang from inside walls and wardrobes
to spin luxurious silk threads
With which they wrap themselves—
every inch a new secret
every inch new layer in which to hide.
Then,
There in the utter, abysmal dark,
They dream themselves into things of beauty—
Secrets,
purple eyes with wings,
grow feather-like antennae
And burst forth from their hiding places
To stare down the day.
Feathers burn in candle flames
Purple eyes become dust
Blinking against electric beams
But in daylight, Secrets look like mere moths;
They should not dread it so.
Balanced on the edge of bliss
they drink from fragrant, cupped petals,
embrace its nectar with a kiss
Share
Print
Save
Follow
Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
Axilea
Your poetry is captivating with striking imagery!
Chris
Fee
Ron