Mayhem in a Season of Honey

-a sestina


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.

Oh honey,

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.



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