song and dance.

death by all the flowers
 into my hands; moon-struck
 in the deconstruction of the womb
 in night of envying
 cults of orgasm, her prime
 ashes 
 moon taunts and she rises
 the black lily until
 such thorns are wounds
 upon the sculptural 
 song and dance, as our silhouettes weep,
 to die.

© 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.

Reposted for the Go Dog Go PYM 3/22/21.

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8 Comments

  1. It’s an odd thing to wake up to – heavy symbolism, a nice red thread that connects the sexual wyrd: moon, womb, orgasm, lily. I’m in danger of repeating myself so I’ll try not to – but isn’t it fascinating how pleasure and pain drip drop from the same tongue?

    Liked by 3 people

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