45

{ Napoleon was a poet }

soft light falls like hair around my eyes,

paints my cold skin the color of amethysts,

reminds me that a diamond is not so important,

and cannot keep me warm at night.

there is madness in the sky at this solitary hour;

the moon’s dull glow frantically searches for some hope

to replace what was loved at noon

and displaced at midnight;

but it would be a mistake

to pity this ol’ mare—

even the oldest and wisest blindly follow the dance,

mistaking art for something serious.

curious flowers with their ruby lips and inquiring eyes

glance askance in my direction, but pay me no mind.

crowded around a tall oak

conferring amongst themselves,

they say that Napoleon was a poet,

and proceed to speak to me without indifference,

as if we know each other.

bats, all in rhythm, go chasing each other,

their shadows twist between my fingers,

swarm around my head,

like insects, like smoke;

they leave me to rest beneath the spectacle where

i am alone among foreign scents, feeling at home

between their movements,

bored and waiting

for the mist to encroach and the dew to form.

.

.

.

Photo: @mr.babies

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