They checked the barricades
again.
For breaching points of
opportunity.

She dressed the same as always.
Plaid skirt,
high boots,a plastic umbrella
in her hand.

They're making silence
from a scream,
concocting potions
that turn fevers into dreams.

Olive branches swing around,
in breeze created from
the movement of her brow.

There's science swept across her lip,
that drizzles slowly toward,
mother natures slit.

It's all relative you've heard.
Like when a salmon dies
an eagle gets dessert.

Still in this case it's not the same.
Here we're comparing
a muse's ashes to a flame.

04/01/2012