Pleas to Aristaeus

Winter’s brrs,

beasts asleep,

insects more discreet,

climbing slow on death’s decor.

Show me life

amongst the stems of trees.

A forbidden mist

blurs what I miss

until I’ve lost it.

What hides inside the maiden’s locket,

a nameless name

spoken by broken prophets.

Her tears fall colder than snow,

lost and lonely

like a dove that missed migration.

Buzzing yellow blueprints,

nectar of desire,

climb from the night and see these eyes.

Subtle florals rise

dressed in citrine shine.

Pour from your golden gaze

through the story’s spine.

Wash your light

into her shivering heart

as she breathes clouded time

into this barren air.

Seed her waiting droplets.

Join the sulking salt

sipped from lips

that dam the cries of winter.

Drink