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
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
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