The Spring Sunrise and the Trinket Box

A curse echoes through the whory trees,
naked to the satirical, acrid breath of
winter. The stench that lingers still.

No alien intent on my part as I bore
the wall across from mine a new
heart to break and fold and mend
with my eerie eyes, still dusty
from a snatch of sleep.

The trees are dead like dear
Jack's murderous works of
morose art. It is still winter to spite
that Aphrodite - Flora.

Tall and misty eyed with
pregnancy and birth-
she has no effect on
the ravages of Winter.

She is no cosmic cosmetic.

I see scratches of heavy hearted
crocuses in the frozen dirt as if
Flora had scraped the ground
with her fingernails,
to ease a desperate itch.

The moon despises the morning;
with all it's hurry and bustle and dew.
He's a triumphant lump of candle wax-
when all things witchy and fearsome
worm through like terrible rabbits from
Hades’ Demon Forest.

Now the wax is melting into the
same wetness that sprinkles
over the grasses and buildings like
diamond chips. He is the ultimate hypocrite
when the shift changes
and the Sun takes over and watches me.

Her mercurial temper is unmatched by no other.

I trace the archaic patterns
engraved in the grave silver of
the trinket box I bought yesterday.
The box shoots a wry smile at the
smirking Sun. This box knows more
about myself than I.

It is a ornate piece of folly,
this box.
Thoughts trace back to foggy memories
of Victorian grandeur and unknown
Asian princes.

Yet

and yet, it is black inside.
Black and impressive
black and inviting,
black and empty, and black, black, black again.

This is the Box of Time.

I do not wish to annihilate myself in
the ill-gotten majesty of the Sun's
halo. I shall wait for the forgetful
Moon and I shall crawl into my
own trinket box;

and wait until the frost thickens,
when Winter reigns again
and the austere gothicness of
trees shall be a wondrous
pallbearer.

Wow. There is no single line in that I love more than the next. Each part of it was just so incredible.