the night the moon ate jupiter
thorn of light
thorn of bright
trapped
in the call
of a prussian
blue night
i am gypsy
i am queen
to the hounds
of hope unseen
slipping silent
racing whole
through a screen
of web retold
counting distance
and return
with an abacus
of learn
blood roses
blooming tight
on the skin
of my lost flight
.
.
.
June 30th, 2015 at 11:57 am
This is so tight, so terse; it must be spoken aloud, with attitude, around a gypsy fire.