Almond Sophrona carries death on her tongue, the taste.
His yellow hands, the bellowing mouth.
The heavy body blowing harder than the wind.
Hard steps smacking the floor, the creaks and cheeks, charcoal breath.
Everything is hanging around as the brain is infested.
The underworld clinging to the eyes still open.
Death a drastic change, a harrumphing sound.
She doesn’t want to hold the hand.
She is sitting amongst teddy bears.
Someone is yelling for absolution somewhere, rattling in echoes.
It is a melody seducing her heart.
Her body rejects it vividly.
Almond Sophrona will shatter all these memories.
Her thoughts will disappear.
Heat and fury did that to her brain, all that guilt.
As she wandered around, not where she was expected to be.
As his genitals hung loose, she stood up for herself.
Both exposed, the silence on the swing.
The news sinking into the sunset.
The first night without his breath, the red fingertips.
The surrounding faces impose remorse.
She can’t find it genuinely.
They evoke it artificially.
And she enters a dialogue with the dead who cannot sleep.
Cannot lie still amongst all those corpses.
A battlefield of times bygone.
The man with the bayonet, the bottle and the ticking clock, remembrance.
The cigarette, the last straw, skin on skin.
Almond Sophrona the prophet, the carrier of poisons unfolded.
Love, a disease, a panting deep underground.
The arms waiting for an embrace, a get together, reaching silence and redemption.
Letters written, whispers answering, her eyes shut as the sun goes up.
Croque-Melpomene 