these sultry lips taste forsaken leaves
as they fall south within a morning gust.
encumbered from the branches left over
their ideals, visions, notions, lives
all gone with the wind.
it scares me and honestly this is something
I have to embrace,
will death come and sway?
& the reaper will his hands overlay?
this can leave bitter tastes
wrapped across the inner linings
of each bud placed periodically
around my tongue.
if fine dining means more
then silver forks
& prime rib,
then why do these views
still smell of roasted
sirloin.
why must lips
naturalize everything,
the saturation and tone
is very dark.
one day I wish to taste
the gravy segments from this spoon
that do not dip in dirt
so evocative.
I wish the meal presented in front of me
is more than a midnight concoction of torn together
newspaper articles and obituaries.
this dinner is more than a last supper
it is also the first.
so, with a lick of these lips
I take away those stains
those bitter
stains forever left
on the imprints
of these hands.
they have been through a lot
and I only wish this parting gift
will help cleanse them
of all their sludge.
