those bruises

those bruises

I want to give you gold,
gold that'll riddle a God
back to the odious rat they were
before they were put upon a cloud.

I want to make kebab sticks
from their whiskers,
pesto from their bones,
venture into a pale, quiet period.

There, your furied light
will mingle with mine,
we'll stare at a mouth wide open,
spread central at the banquet.

I want to give you gold,
so freedom isn't bound
by economy or domination
or land.