We are the Lloru (aka another semi-evolved Poetry Bit)

If you sprawl on the January sharpness- cloak your collar bones in a shawl of chiffon, frozen hexagons we call snow in Babylon-

 

and yawn to the profile of czars, gilded crowns studded with half-grown stars, tell me.

Does the pillow-thick air rush to the depths

                                         

Of your stomach,

Rest against your vertebrae,

Asleep in the company of

each breath you’ve ever trapped

Beneath your ribcage

 

Or

 

Do the sinewy tendrils of half-used breeze

Drift upwards

Shun your lungs in favor of milky rungs

In a one way conversation with above

No longer familiar in language

Attempts to understand refuted

Merely for their presumptions of depth.

 

Presumptions, assumptions:

That we inhale either

Exhale or

That, between the

Earth and sky,

You and I

Is a singular door on which we rely

 

But we are the Lloru

We wish for whys and for windows

Jar open the frames,

Defiant, Risoriant,

And breathe.

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3 thoughts on “We are the Lloru (aka another semi-evolved Poetry Bit)

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