Cellos, Magma And Bony Lions (What Is Left Here) Poem by Luke J. Holt

Laughter
yellow tendrils webbed in dew
blighted emergence
too much crying
and the smiles are yours
and then you are seized by the corrosive rapture of touch
and you are an insect
before your hive can swell

we knew only that which came after
i still can only hear you when the blister-flame of candles nod and curtsy to gales that bluster my broken curtains.
when you fester on him
and your symbiosis grows upon you an autonomous bubble of regret
remember me and my promise(s)
this mausoleum is a construction of the silt shores gone grey and gold
lustered by the gloss of dark blue flooding within towns where the clocktower is a giant, deaf toddler
in a room full of quiet, cloudy corpses