Lotus Throne: Prose for a Pose Series

Tinted eyes tell all

Hidden under hair, we sit

floating in our magical assumption

collectively fathom the unfathomable

Imagine what’s not there

We could be

A constellation of nonexistent light

She does not diddle, she keeps

coasting the colloquialism of the stars

Empty conversations bide time, while

Lips gravitate toward hips, each one sips, slips

It’s the pull, a toroidal grasp

Like a black hole, she’s cold, dark, deep

In defected sounds, so

Staggered and beat, hear her deplete

Withered and thin, without end

Step out onto the terrain, again

Open your mind, be of sound reverence

There’s so much to soak

Marsh, and grass runs long, rolled loud

like the cicadas that make you sweat

inhale, exalt the breath you give

A humdrum creatures through

You want nothing else.