Mayhem in a Season of Honey
Scent of chamomile, and the smell of honey.
Destruction hid in the coffee, over burnt already.
She strolls into a sunroom filled with flowers
and potted trees. But colors are abstract. Blind,
intertwined with the immaculate darkness —
shades from the hell
they’ve told her. Hellm
has no color, she responded. Honey,
you can be sour, but there’s darkness
underneath your eyes, close to your heart. Already
her cup half full. In a bland
taste and uniformity of time, she sees flowers
she planted the other day. Flowers
on her sleeves fell
into her dream. Who said blind
don’t see colors. Sweet honey
sank to the bottom of her mug already.
A twisted taste (almost artless)
stirred in endless motion. Darkness
of the coffee swirls in lollipop colors; flowers
blossom in the gutters. Perhaps the spring — already
near — swells to the rim of her mug, dwells
in her place far from debris. Sunny
afternoon she aligned bright stars with blind
sight. In a glitch she blinks —
concepts of stars were never written in darkness.
did you see the flaws
far above the hell.
Her mauve lipstick marks her coffee. Already
emptied mug sits aside some mossy foliage. The shrine
of daylight kites on dusts in the air, casting a spell:
the grayness of her eyes, the darkness
forsaken behind a vase, a cluster of flowers —
mayhem in a season of honey.
Can’t you hear the blinding light’s calling, (honey
can’t you see), flowers are blooming from the hell
gate, burning when the darkness’s falling. Already.