so i prate

i. an orifice of chlorophyll
an orifice of ink
a saucer steeped in chamomile
to bind the eye of sleep

ii. it's just a smathering of capital a hammer-wrenching fractal prase n parsed to keep stochastic models larked along the shore she's got a sliver of your finest nestled near her pulse disguised by cataracts a rash of tides incisors bare abyssal air that abrogates your glutted lungs arraigns your every word and sands your palms with future plans she's drawn from your skin before

iii. talia wears a crescent moon imbued with simmering oil slicks, their plumes a perfume that abets levitation, leads to bloodied brows and a longing for lightness even as exhaust tosses the captivated blocks upon blocks from their daze. from there they can still hear talia conduct the city's orchestra: she has mastered the art of walking each shadow crossed each step each quiver of an eyelash hangs on talia's sway; drifts of freckles pepper the air with a decadence often reserved for men with a taste for unicorn flesh, for women of geosynchronous station. the whorls of her hair are the helices that beget breath, a symphony of beginnings that remains in the womb but for those brilliant few who illume us.