deepundergroundpoetry.com

Her darling

she says "darling"  
in polished oak  
 
in the ochres of cognac  
and rose
 
 
her tone speaks peace  
while dressing my wounds,  
and smells of lavender  
packed tight into carbon-singed brass  
 
there are warriors  
and medics  
in her tongue
that split open lime-green moss  
simply to stitch it back up with flecks of a pink;  
that requires red and white to serenade  
the underside of dirt  
 
she owns the word darling  
in a way that numbs me in warm embrace,  
while slowly increasing subtle tingle  
until fission  
 
the hollow tube  
beyond spine;  
where deities are invented,  
reverberates like a didgeridoo  
when she soft-whispers radioactive shalom  
 
 
 
no man has ever  
heard a greater call to arms
Written by lightbaron
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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