asthetes’ wanderlust

don’t talk to me
with flavourless anecdoche;
even death has character.
whisper into my ear
of all that you hold dear;
fear of incomprehension
is what turns autumn
into snowflakes.

touch my fingertips
while we sonder
in dark green opia;
monachopsis is the
monster under the bed,
but your lips taste
of lachesism, adronitis,
and static electricity.

and i’ll paint a ruby sunset
in your snow-white heart;
forgive the church candles;
the flame blew out the wind;
i’ll be your slow combustion.
let’s learn to finger-paint
the sun on the raindrops
we breathe out on glass.

T. E. Pyrus

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