It’s cold
Prickly from blunted spikes
Like wrapping tendrils
That snake and twist around an arm

It vibrates
Gently making friction
It’s warm in a hand
And is worth many mythologies

To who should hold
The legendary gold
Which they cannot touch
Lest they gain insight

So disciplined
And strong
The mortal coils
Shuffle and shift

Augurs of reality
Anchoring the nightlife
Heartbeat skyscrapers
Pumping, streetborne

The fission of skin and coil
Cooling with mist and fog
Clouds undercast the stars
In grand, laughing bazaars

Cults chant incantations
Speakers listen to ghosts
The blunted spikes
Sharpen, dull, and coil

Thorns of a flower
Rooted in ashes
Bulb glowing bright
Petals stained scintillate

Reflecting the streetlights
The cold, slender lightwaves
Droplets of thorndew
Refracting the neon sounds

Splintering barbs
Fragmenting shards
Tear into the coiling mass
With flowering light and cold sounds

Scales of the moths’ back
Freezing as the wings flap
Beating air into submission
Pollination the attrition

Nectar the petal’s petrichor
Droplets of the thorn ambrosia
Falling, streeborne, to the ground
Refracting light where moths are found

The air has a hold
On the lungs breathing mold
In amber thorns’ spores
And bright, phlorescent ore

Ticktock inquisitions
Frozen for exhibition
Infinite crags of glass
Endless deflections’ absolution

The wings flap, and lights crack
Augurs split and mend the schism
They drink from amber thorns
And fly undercast streetborne

Published by Jake Thomas Shaw

Concerned with memory, currency, and destiny, I strive to capture each one as they happen. Join me and consume reality! Radio Reality. City!

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