Photo by Cristian Newman on Unsplash

Mrs. Bumblebee

Over cinnamon apple tea,
technicolor pictures galore,
she dreamed of her lover,
and so much more.
I was a starving artist,
oil streaked carnations, arm's reach.
I danced with peasants,
and ate with kings.
The rustle of the quail song,
Pounding against the riverbed.
The opera of the nightengale,
to usher in a peaceful slumber.
Tributes of the birds, the bees,
of emptiness and the trees,
and my lover's calls.
I spoke layman's words
but dreamt of a space
at the dais of the demagogue.
I used to scrawl carelessly,
painted his portrait a thousand times
- or maybe just his smile.
I cry out in my light sleep,
I tell that girl everyday,
asking why God had to have His way.
One day the rain fell as thick as black oil,
as dark as my work-in-progress on the soil.
Asking him to stay, he faded away
A kiss of fog on a sunny day.
I sketched him with my hands,
I sculpted the wound with my feet,
I molded the lust in vanilla beats.
In this rocking chair,
I mumbled into the night,
until the voices told me
to take flight.
I stopped at this door,
craving to paint more,
of the lover I lost long ago.
Over oatmeal cookies,
acrylic paint galore,
I lecture on my lover,
and so much more.

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Icon of a hand, hoding a pen, writing love, peace, and adobo grease, Guilliean

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