It is written, on the forehead of the sky,
that any child without a theory of flowers
would Someday mourn the moon of its vastness.
The day my body teleported us
to my father’s hometown,
we witnessed the pregnant butterfly
bloom into a basket of flowers
with every vegetative part slowly fading into exile,
fading into scrapped blocks of a kingdom—where
kings were turbaned with a garment made of lies.
There is a day in the cycle of the year
where fire strikes the wall of men's face,
the day that memories used to fly into the sky;
the beacon of light spills the beans
of our growth—perhaps
this is the way men managed to nurture wings.
Over here, the eye that doesn’t see is the eye
that refuses to be fed light.
Whenever the wind sways
before the curtain of our faces,
note; fingers become lines of latitude
running across our longitudinal bodies.
here, with our hands we slaughter the sky,
& with our mouths we lick the blood
of the moon—so, tell me,
Is there a better way to mourn the madness we've grown to enjoy playing?
DoubleSpeak 