Death, Lunar Poems

Blue Bees will not sting

Unless…
Roses in the park,
Shimmer as a string of red pearls slipping down her throat

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In a steel room he held her midst of mercy
Autumn’s arrival at last, the violet petals collapse
He’ll pass through cosmic tunnels
And wear her voice as he nears the moon

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What of it now?
The failure of nerve
We all stand a chance
To be a queen in his eyes
When the suntory claimed the roses as blue

Poem by: NaRa

Art: Blue Bee Image Pinterest, Mark Rothko & Freydoon Rassouli

 

 

 

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Mental Health

E.C.T. BEE FREE

She’s a lovable bundle of anxiety.
Thoughts like a cluttered
Chelsea Hotel room.
Awkward with a sizzle.
What is this divine activity?
Her buzzing daemons chattering above.
They’re winding her up.
Building in her an electrical current;
To feed her thoughts
That seldomly go array.
She needs to transcend out of this.
Needs a renewing mantra.
To dive into the alpha.
And awaken back into earthly arms.

Poem and Drawing: Naomi Ruth

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