Poetry

Red hot razor blades
tenderly trace lines across my soul.
Ley lines,
fault lines,
lines to cross.
They slip,
burning sweetly,
trailing bloody kisses through my thoughts,
tattooing memories
in psychedelic pain.
They bite deep,
blazing words to my brain
that bubble,
sanguine to the surface,
and turning to black,
they rest.

Indulgence

Here I sit,
wrapped in words
that wriggle with pleasure,
satisfied,
around my mind.
Doted on and applauded
like a baby's first steps,
they wreathe and writhe
until my brain is
honeycomb-rich.
And here I sit.

Esther Grace

My baby spoke to me today.
Her “Mama” wreathed in smiles
Played glissandi on my heart strings,
Mellifluous as cherry blossom
tumbling across a clear blue sky.