with summons,
I sit alone; I was tired of my penetralium
and id frozen in aureoled chokes,
harassing me to the shadows; 

each eye abstract, to the phantom 
of stone; I snipped my garden bones
of the rose-beds, felt the hidden 
moon into the thorns, a baby’s opus,
the dying game.

© 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.

Categories: Prose

Tags: Free-Verse, Literature, Micropoetry, Non-Fiction, Poetry, Prose-Poetry, Twitter, Writing