By Lianna De Bartolo
Your denim pools out on the hardwood
As you fall to your knees
Tantalus sinks, for my hair has been washed
And the beds of my fingernails, cleaned
In rapture you ask of my waltz through the morning
Entranced by vague visions of dish soap and lace
And how might I cut o’er the noise of your fantasy,
Borne still by the hopes of your wide-eyed bookcase?
Our carvings upon decayed coasters, worn thin
Exchanged in the small screen’s pink sanguine glow,
Bear imagery repeated, and through tedium born
Though notions of struggle your veiled eyes forego
Then I shall smile at the heroine whose lines I’ll recite,
Though pernicious be the flowers that bloom in this light.