Hoping His Soul's Heart To Unlatches Poem by Mark Heathcote

Thoughts paper-masque greyly,
over our rhymester's face comprised-
of printed words - internalized,
it drips dries, half-frozen really,

With secret dialects epitomized,
displaying themselves as hornet wasps...
stabbing; internally to be militarized
into a catacomb poetic sop.

Tongues loll for words unpainted,
like when red hibiscus flower slouches
for bees at summer's end: Not yet jaded.
"Hoping his soul's heart" to unlatches.