creation

•∞•

Beauty is a state of mind;
a shadow of the worlds stars
fading at the sight of me learning
how to bleed constellations
instead of chaotic destruction.

To be a coquette like Mother Nature, 
who flirts with the roots of trees
as she tastes the berries that hand
from the mouths of their leaves.

I'll be bubbling under the magma,
eruptions sliding fire over
the otherwise dry land,
for I am not abstemious in
this consuming burn,
and as the clouds drip kerosene,
I strike a match over black tar
that does not know how to exist. 

To live in a dream so perpetual that
the line blurring reality is 
another dimension I do not 
need to cross.

I want to be a creation,
to be more than an imaginary status,
a sea covering the earth with
so many treasures,
only those worthy of searching
for an adventure can venture
on my waters;
black days mattered by the
hurricanes lifting
droplets on window panes.

Can you imagine how
beautiful I would be,
ripping sharks teeth and gliding
whirlpools in my free time?

I would be so free,
so wild and beautiful,
and this freedom will bring
awe in its shipwrecks instead
of rustling storms,
cascading and crackling,
electricity lightening up streets,
for my presence thunders in
silent alleys and sooty chimneys. 

Darling, do you know how much of a 
privilege you would have
to taste the salt and sweat
of my petrichor? 

•∞•