@d-pendStripe of the sun
stirring Mars and mustard seeds
in a hot pan
until they blister at the seams
and crackle
into aromatic heresies.
Wafting to the heavens,
fleeing from timid gospels
that seep upwards
from the not-quite-jungle.
Changeling tourney
of folly and erudition—
twined through the turbulent pastures
of renunciants,
screaming vigilantes,
families flecked with gold.
How is it the burnished purple-grays speak so,
while the beiges keep their covenants close?
How is it stories span centuries?
Captivate with their green fists—
spawning magic beanstalks
insisting at the impossible.
@d-pend
