The neo solis rose—
He was just fourteen
Flat lawns, flat people
One violet, one steeple
A bowed head, ruddy veins
The dust rolling down
Their winded window panes
Oh! Forgo this sunset—
It was blessed by the cursed
He’s seen the neo solis
He’s seen Moroni at its worst
Las Vegas! What a vision,
No borders, full of appetite
A mecca, hello transcendence
His flat shoes gathered
Pink neon powder
As he walked by the grand piano show
Notes pulsed in his arm
They could be divine
Because as the neo solis set
Dimming the path
The bright neon stars aligned
He was seventeen now,
Suitcase locked, clothes folded
No saying sorry-ful sorrow
Because his daddy wouldn’t understand
Wouldn’t see his heathen’s tomorrow
Demons clasped at his feet
Angel’s whispered to his spine
Dogma’s eyes condemned
But the neo solis was divine
He wakes up now,
Everything is ignited
Flashing metal poetry
Breathing flames
He walks now,
Shoulders breaking open
Trampolines over angel’s trumpets
Asking the old meadows
Is a god so strange to be accepted?
Melanie Falconer is a freelance writer and editor living in Los Angeles, California. Her writing mainly concerns philosophy, personal experiences, cultural commentary, and her love of the visual and performing arts. If you’d like to reach out to her, you can do so here.
Leave a Reply