Yard Sale of Thoughts

The dying sun flashes 
a mirror shield.

The buildings, javelins,
thrown and missed.

I lie in bed,
Medusa head;
beside me,
the old year petrified,
stone dead.

The coiled snake waiting
between my hips,
begins to rise,
to climb the palm tree 
of my spine, all
vibration and hiss.

Whether for a goodnight kiss
or to bite, both 
acrimonious.

The force so easily dismissed.

Tantric twister
rises into a cracked bell:
a rattle, 
a near miss.

The ringing fades,
a tingle in my rib cage.
And I don't know,
if what I've felt can be dismissed
or 
if I wanna go back into
that dome of bliss.

©2024 | K.F. Hartless

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