poems....w.i.p.
with thanks to Octavia Butler
 |
| Vince Ballentine 2015 ig: vballentine99 |
They don’t know.
Who?
None of them.
Lionesses all, we know:
Lonely we race savanna down
For blood for meat
For ourselves to be found in a
kill of love.
He hunts, too, for her, but it’s not the same.
Protect
Provide
Profess
And thank goddess.
And yet, still it is not the hunt of love lioness makes:
a firestorm silent infinite roar: she plays in danger under a sun of her
own tone-
a danger, a threat, a vulnerability of not owning her own heart -exposed under hot noon-
But feeding it feeding it
always:
the need
for meat.
A blood bath for her soul that returns it to the gaping open-heart of
her solar plexus.
A long and winding Pleiades into the extraplanetary focus of another
galaxy….
Standing on the black paint of sky
because black is never black. It is always
red
green
purple
blue.
And there is a green in king’s eyes…
But it is an orange in queen’s.
Because earth warms, and rages in earthen races,
While his violet night hunt is cool as a sprint, and the purple road is
paved and smooth and cool
in the black-green night,
a racing around the edge of stylized, cut, and known cliff's edges,
while
Hers guns into a heart of darkness.
And then there was a wait,
a pause
a taking in of breath
And a silent holding at the edge of the road where the gravel meets
The bare edge of the black top rocks
that tell of a strange kind of civilization at the edge of the world,
Where lioness hearts are still queen,
And king’s rules are yet unknown.
