We harbor
chrysalidae of doubt
our lips are mothlike
They’ve found
the withheld postscripts
of your conscience
We’ve left
behind old fictive constellations
and chalk outlines
Made
campsites out of graves
of aspirations long forgotten.
All this time I’ve been
filling balloons ripe
with quiet desperation
I’ll cut the tethers soon -
two more to go.
Promise me to
hold me like an inhale
The fallout drifts like bubbles
yellow curtains, draw me close.

We’ve Passed the Eleventh Hour

St. Grace -

summerstas.tumblr.com

(via summerstas)

One of my favorite pieces. 

Jul 13, 2014 / 10 notes
Jul 11, 2014

Call It A Coup.

St Grace Poetry - 

Jul 11, 2014 / 2 notes

Short-Lived Monuments

This is:
my interim -
a dandelion monarch
willfully grasping
the last strands of
a fast-fleeting crown on
a trembling stem.
My one last possession
it teases -
I leave behind feeble murals
of shed hair on the shower wall
as tribute
to all that I’m losing.
A transient array of
a king in decay, of
a saint in disgrace, of
a reign unbegone and
uncoming.

Both
the sun and fall leaves are
most vivid on the way out a
splendor hardly subtle
only
one ends with decay.
Jul 7, 2014 / 11 notes
Jul 3, 2014 / 18 notes

loom

lebuc:

*
my world,
a subset of my room

itself,
a subset
of another.

my toe,
just my toe.

your eyes
loom larger
than both.

how they unsettle so.
*

She
Doesn’t play well,

Can’t tell
her people from words
lovers from
letters, spell her
devotees from syllables.

It’s a puzzle, see her
try to figure it,
illiterate
tends to forget that
souls are not durable
as words.

Afternoon spent
by herself,
Built a brick wall
out of bad fruit
watched it wilt
walked away
before the flies came.

Jul 2, 2014 / 8 notes

I.
What I know of the truest color
is my cielo - he is
such a lovely hue
Blue is a low note
and i’m saddened by balloons

But
despite fear of concrete fissures
I’m looking up
(It’s never been heights i’m afraid of.)

II.
He calls me a forest fire - after all
he hauled me from a
burning one-woman ghost town
Risked all for singed fingers
and thankless charred lips

But
smoke doesn’t disappear, it dissipates -
(I’m still haunted)
I’ve been salvaged, not extinguished -
(I’m still burning)

III.
Blue flame and orange filament
take in the glow of sunset
take in the
silhouette of urban sprawl.

Promise me, Cielo
you’ll make a wish when I’m extinguished

To hold like an inhale.
To keep like a resolution,
To miss like the last call.

Complimentary Colors

- St. Grace Poetry- 

summerstas.tumblr.com

Jun 19, 2014 / 15 notes
Jun 18, 2014 / 224,817 notes

(via iridessence)

proximity is a hell of a drug
sensation is a lost art
I’m looking to reclaim
the understated language the
nuance of punctuated gestures
detectable in silence
don’t speak —
help me redefine
the boldly inaudible
typography of body, of
being in time.
Jun 11, 2014 / 31 notes
Jun 6, 2014 / 3 notes

Uprising

garden plot: the flowers are
conspiring; a coup -
the octopi have taken up arms
their portabella mantles
borne by the truest color (blue)
cremini capped jellyfish swarm
faceless -
the bravest invertebrate
(and)
among them, i am
the most unlikely weapon
my mother ever raised -
my ascendance,
interim,
reign.