A proclamation of a prologue ending
threaded on a banner of good intentions bending.
I have seen summer and autumn and winter and spring,
but this season is like nothing I have ever even dreamed,
where the weather tastes like lemons,
and honey sticks between my fingers,
and the shadowed corner of my mind summons.
Where my mind is the static of nights spent staring
at ceilings of fading connections.
A proclamation said to taste like frosting,
to melt like cotton candy,
but is instead like cold tea,
some bitter, spilled catastrophe.
“Good mornings” and “good evenings”
are phrases thrown as habitual as sending
cards of “thank yous” and “get well soons.”
And my “how are yous?” are handed back to me
with your “goods” rolling of your shoulders,
but I catch them in my palm, turn them and ask,
“Really, how are you?”
a ballad of a broken camera and blurred polaroids,
of shattered constellations once worn
as diamonds at my neck,
a ballad of scattered moon-dust
in dirty wishing well water.
a day when I begin peeling labels and layers,
where my consolations are sunsets,
fireflies, and prayers.
So now I say,
“Good mourning to this third birth!”
Mourn because at seventeen I find time to be prisons,
a labyrinth of wishful thoughts as fading lanterns.
not at birth itself but that the party
is celebrated with deflating balloons
of ambitions broken
and sending lost dreams
as paper boats down my own bloodstreams.