The Allure is Crepuscular

for nights when stallions blend

into the field, cool watercolors

weeping into

abandonment

 

such nights when saddles taste

like lemonade from the groves

licking quicksand

instead of springs.

 

A sprig of lavender to summon

seasons, to trot the quilting sky

into the cortices

instead of dusk:

 

a tame pastel or pleasant scent

was never enough to slaughter

throttled astrocytes

with a broken leg.

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Published by

Jenna

Hello, fellow bundle of nerves and flesh! I'm a simple little being who's half-poet, half-scientist, and all gelatinous chaos. Sort of like an illogical marshmallow. If you'd like to learn more, please seek out the "First Impressions" page. Thank you for the visit, bundle friend.

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