she laid buried there underneath the point where the truths started and the lies began; you all ignored that as you tittered your adulations in birdsong as if ignoring her dead body would make it go away imbibed leaves burn her throat, her body would thrash if she weren't already dead; her lips the blue of azure skies dipped in loving white clouds - still you hold hands and laugh as if she never existed there; the lilting songs of disaster clinging to her lips in an unsung hymn that you all feign to have forgotten; she lays there in a sprawl of gold and scarlet, her hair the petals of the sun birthed upon grey rocks that cover her more prettily than her fine clothes torn to tatters by wolves, you have no silver tears left for her. unearthed by shaking hands some years later, a strip of pink is the only thing that separates her skull from that of a wild animal; his fingers trip over her syllables like a laughing girl, he discovers the truth hidden in her marrow and he is rendered mute. - linda m. crate cyanide lullabies
cyanide lullabies cling to her lips in rivers of red lipstick, she knows no other color of passion but scarlet - she chokes on cardinal feathers simply so she can feel the vibrancy of being alive; she does not know that love isn't a heart attack walking on egg shells or a victory march, but something a little less grand yet in it's simplicity even more beautiful than her lovely dulcet hued lips.
- linda m. crate the clock was dead
the hands of the clock were fixed - they could only tell the right time twice a day; every other hour they lilted in dulcet tones the exact hour of impropriety, a weirder shade of midnight sung on pomegranate seeds; the eyes of one and two ever staring in their stained maroon, a garish hue loud enough to make babies lament. - linda m. crate wounded
they made their pilgrimage through the town dotted with churches, their hearts twisted in an odd shade of pomegranate the memory of love brought back only bitterness, it left it's stain in garish maroon hues they could never wash from their souls, they recalled the impropriety of the priests that called themselves men of God, remembered their sins went unpunished by men, it brought the tang of anger darting to their tongues - silver rain fell upon stained glass windows, as alms of their anger poured forth in rivulets of angry words; the men were happy when they returned home to a place where only bars had sprung their wooden hands, drowning out their disdain with a bit of needed ale. - linda m. crate healing
drowned in the ale of silver rain, she made a promise to let it wash away the stains of every garish yesterday that had painted her in it's ugly obsidian hymns sometimes streaking her with pomegranate other times with royal blue; she took her life back in a breath of fog, let the white mist swallow what was left of her pain; let the rain mingle with the salt of her eyes, it made a good fertilizer for the flowers that grew beneath her feet in dulcet pastel hues. she knew that God would one day heal her broken heart, until the doves came she would sit here in the field as she sipped on the liquor of the clouds; letting the pain blossom forth so it could be washed away by wet fingers.
- linda m. crate