Monsters of Men

sunshine cumulus

Verbenas flourish from

your bones, soil spilling

from your eyes. There's

sun magic in your heart

as it breaks and bleeds

honey dew. The bees swarm

around your Spanish carmine

hair and weave it into

braids, leaving pollen

in the strands. So tell me,

oh day goddess, why are you

so woeful? Is it because

the boy you love keeps

his soul in a snow swept

smile, or because his love

is like the glass of ice

and you cut your gossamer

silk skin on his lips? You

should know better than

to play in the cold,

because now your fingers

are the worst shade of

cerulean blue and your

suffocating against the

blizzards in your rib cage.

Run, dear goddess, run!

Before the avalanche hits

your heart and that ice boy

steals your sun.