Where will you be when the sun breathes its last?
The sun peaks on the horizon,
spreading its rays. The transfusion
will feed the flowers until none
are left to greet it and glisten
in its diminishing fortune.
Of all there were, only seven
plants survived and still remain.
Should the hot wind suddenly turn
back cold and bring the guillotine,
they too will fall to temptation.
I sit alone, humming a tune,
and wait for the sky to open.
With a sigh, I rest my head down
on the ground—hard and dry as tin—
where the flowers keep me sane.
They dance in the heat to lessen
their petals’ heavy blue burden.
Stretching their heads to the crimson
ball, they feed on its vitamin
and relish in the abandon.
The flowers will live for eighteen
minutes more—their leaves cracked and worn.
Littered between them, a tampon
reminds of the end and I scorn
the sky and its red dying sun.
Hello, Hive!
Another something new from me: poetry! It's a wonderful art form that seems much easier than it is. And I love a challenge. This is a poem of mine that was first published in Illumen Magazine in January 2019.
This poem has a very fun technique called a pararhyme. It has the last word of each line end in an "n" sound. The pattern of pararhymes have their magic in their ability to fool the brain into thinking that there's a rhyme and thus appeal to the satisfaction of experiencing a rhyme.
There shall be more speculative poetry coming so stay tuned if this is something you enjoy reading.
