A Bereaving Statuette

Turquoise is a beauty
springy and terse
so stunning and unraveling
so multi-operational
and dumbstruck in the
unconditional love dwelling
in my heart chambers.

she's a machine that
wears nothing but herself.
I am much obliged to admit
she needs nothing but herself.
and if she can make room in her
heart for someone perhaps it will
be me.

Angles never seemed to be
fit to be as angelic as a
lack of angles. Angels seem
to be fine with their neighborly
angles. I can't make up
my fucking mind.

Situational, scared
pushed and shoved
tested and putrid.
they are vile and
unsatisfying. I am
a little heart in a
big body; beating furious
curiously strong.

I obtained a memento
that dyed my heart purple
and my eyes black
with eyeliner that
didn't belong in them.

"It must've been a joke,"
I laughed.

Stern as I try to be,
I laugh quietly inside
and wish the words
cute would emerge and
tell the world a story.

The stratosphere...
the moon...
the infinite stars...
all wound up in a
huge package
all held together by
a huge yarn
owned by no man.

A brisk tusk
in a cold frisk.