A corpse poem and photography series by @ghostofearth & Ophelia Darkly
The womb smells of poplar and semen
blue blood waves where shadows sequence on;
the hollow entity, holy beacon of horrors below it.
We knew most how to keep them ripe
knew more than eyes know come the light of morning
we watched the outlines
and made up stories about them,
the waking with flowers in hair,
the apples in moon irises,
the sour milk and blood oranges on the table,
a mother collarbone adorned in fables all her own;
the cracked candy necklace shown.
So we watched through the windows
crowning of crows and chrysalis homes
in short distances from us
in blinks we captured them.
There was much too much waiting for us
in languages yet unknown;
such scriptures carved in animal bones.
What music of the wilder kind
on the wind of the wildest of sparrows;
those leaving eggs behind them
for tomorrow’s more Southern nests
the most reckless abandonment - yet
observed by little girls in the garden.
Nature is nothing if not honest
and the cracking, the cracking of raspberry vine called it.
Broken brides are not hard to find
they are the crop of bitter beds, of unseeded soils
visit any plot at night, revel in it’s dryness
as darkness fades and our star rises
you can watch them harvest light from darkly reservoirs,
dipping hands in dark wishing wells.
We wished only for the wonders, we did
but they were busy playing with wickeds and blunders
thoughtlessly pricking their fingers on memory weeds
stinging of sores from grandmother bees and hornets.
The honey is not ripe for the taking, not yet,
not without exchange
and eternal watering
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