MoonMince by Gloria J. Wimberley

Cresting the sun
besting the one
only to be palsied by
fingers of crevice
allowing me
the Cicada
(no entrance)
--although I've left hope unattended
like Kennedy roses
forlorn
and aware
of their thorns
~for eons of the soul
Whittle me white
Don Death
your quixotic charms
as hypnotic as the green light
ethereal
above a corpse
still
soul-hazy from your kiss...
MoonMince
haven't seen the sun since
...the No Exit sign
shines on


Gloria J. Wimberley © 2011