Lone Wolf

New waters quench
his parched throat
filling inflated lungs
like an air balloon
floating through
blue bubbles of
oxygen and exhaling
spit and an exchange
of naïve tongues.

He pushes his tongue
down her throat
with a whip of
backlash and the stain
of a new lip stain
from another woman
and she stays silent
under the weight of his
chest moving back and forth
against salt and fresh water.

Salt is her lips
bitter with an aftertaste
of naïve tongue
chocking her esophagus
and blocking her screams
underneath murmured
hums and a distant memory
of him pecking her lips
gently with the song
of wolves howling
in the half-lit night.

Fresh is the new
pair of lips
he tastes to compare
from his former lover
with a mature tongue
to direct his greedy
motives intermixed
with call of
both women on dial.

New waters quench
this parched throat
but he dismisses
the gulp of saliva
with each intake of
fresh and salt.
He spits out words
with a distant howl
at the crescent moon.
No, let him be a lone wolf.


Rainbow Dance

Streams of rainbow colors
fall from the rain
descending from
pearl clouds of smoke
moving through
and covering planets
stuck in orbit.

The colors dance
against the lightening
flashing its light
with the strike of
former lovers
stumbling on
blue and black
blots of ink.

Thunder roars
with a laugh
echoing from
the pen leaking
out in words
muttered underneath
the rhythm of familiarity
and raw emotions
of red anger
blue depression
and green jealousy.

The woman carries on
in the rainbow dance
with her dream catcher
and colors streaming
in her auburn eyes
seeking her former lover
in the storm raging
beneath her legs
and a past memory
of a man with blue-cold eyes
staring into atmosphere
and covering planets
in their orbit
from the setting sun.

Stars dangle from her hips
music escapes her lips
and the rainbow dance
fades into the atmosphere
with red anger
blue depression
and green jealousy
polluting her air
and swallowing her words
before her lover leaves
to find another woman.

Through the Looking Glass

lFog rolls on pouts

of smoke from

the pipe of Hookah

she puffed in

autumn air.


She inhales

poetic scents

of  Middle-Eastern spices

and perfume

linking her

to the pipe

and a circle

of  plastic smiles

and Arabic lullabies.


There is a glass,

a looking glass,

she stares in

opposite directions

of the mirrored walls

shadowing a woman

with scarlet lips

and auburn-colored streaks

of frizzy hair.


Circular faces

surround her

body and all

exchange a puff

of  fragrance

and discolored scents

seeping from

their purple-blue lips.


Oxygen deprives

their fog of smoke

like a chill of autumn breeze

and leaves falling from trees

above the Hookah bar.

Carbon Dioxide bubbles

the glass as the woman

stares through the looking glass,

a strange reflection

of flavored scents

and hand prints.


Her lungs expand

and deflate with

the force of gravity

pulling Carbon Dioxide

from her chest

as she takes in her last breath

of Oxygen air.


She lets the looking glass

fog her reflection

in a heat of spicy-flavored smoke

and traces her hands

against the palm prints

of a woman

who chose to

suffocate with a circle

of plastic smiles

and Arabic lullabies.


She smiles through

the looking glass.

All she needs

is another puff

to fog her reflection

of  Marylyn-Monroe

and Virgin Mary

staring at her

with a polka-dot dress

and a rosary

reaping prayer

and sin.


Never will she

look through the

looking glass again.









Tulips line

her lavender dress

sweeping the floor

through her dance

of rose petals

falling in suspense.


A poignant scent

seeps into the pores

of her silk-smooth skin

stinging like a bee

buzzing against

the silent breeze.


She is silent.

She is haunted

in seams of tulips

and a bouquet of roses

from a friend lost

in day dreams

and a ghost

of memories.


Her friend stands

in pearls lining

her virgin=white dress

in sparking diamonds

and sipping Champaign

with a toast of vows

to a man with a black tuxedo

and a blurry reflection.


He holds his new-wife’s hand

and smiles through

his crooked yellow teeth.

A vow to clean his slate

with a sip of Champaign.


The wife’s friend stands aside

the crystal table

and chairs laced with velvet.

Her tulips fade

into her lavender dress

like  a camouflage of

deceit and cheap fabric.


Roses fall onto the floor,

the silent breeze closes

the open door

and a poignant scent

seeps into the new-wife’s pores.

Blemishes break out in

lies and misconceptions.

The wife stares into her glass’s reflection

and sees the man lost

in her daydreams

and a ghost of memories.


She cannot vow

to the man

in the black tuxedo

when her friend

holds the bouquet of roses

and wears a lavender dress

of purple tulips

to camouflage

the poignant scent of

Champaign under

her breath.

“Betrayal is, afterall, a poignant scent of deceit and cheap fabric.”



I write for you

Cursed letters ink
from my quill
piercing the paper
again my own will
like sand enclosed
within my heels
sinking on the shore.

Come to me strange
letters rumbling through
a sentence without an utter
of breath to vibrate
my vocal chords.
String me a tune
of carless wit
and drunk rants.
Ignore the hush
of each cringing chant
echoing through
empty rooms.

I write for you.
I write for you.
I write for the lover
who speaks no grace,
for the mute
trapped in the chase,
of a man wrinkling out
words to breathe into life.

For the friend who stays mute,
I write for you.
I write for the secrets
sinking in your chest
growing through fire
and suffocating your lungs
in a fume of red smoke
enflamed in your body
burning through the words
spoken underneath lies
and a package of cigarettes.

Remember, I write for you.
I write for all of you.

Front Page Pick: Owl of Who

Who is the Owl of Who?
His dark feathers beat
the carbon monoxide
under her breath
as she sips her black coffee
underneath the half-moon.

Words hang on her keyboard
painting black letters
on an open fire
fueling drunk laughter
and a silent response
from the Owl of Who.

Who is the man
on the boarder of
brown and white faces
floating through the screens
of windows half-open
and half-closed?
He is not a pilot
dashing in his aircraft
beating the air
with words
or women
on the dial.

No, he is an Owl.
A man with wide eyes
glancing into the fire
and pouring gasoline
on his feathers
with black tar
staining his pattern
of sun-flavored stars.
Oxygen fills his lungs
for the flight
of turbulence
only to collide in
his vocal folds.
A loss of voice
and vibration.

A final silence
to hang over
with a sip
of black coffee
and a never-note
from the Owl of Who.

source: https://allpoetry.com/poem/13525713-Owl-of-Who-by-Britelayne