He holds my arm back
From a strong sprint
The prancing gaslights
His berry-eyed glint
The saints of Arcadia
A candid serenity
Don’t talk back, boy
Are you my enemy?
So from whom do I run
On the Grand Desert Calypso?
The tumbleweeds ceased their cries,
and the drink chills the hows, the whos, the whys
He grasps tightly, now
On my tender skin
His eyes sweet berries
But his words, they stun and dim
So from what do I run
On the Grand Desert Calypso?
It’s a dance with no season
We’re evil without reason
Can I run, dear? Please, let me run, dear.
And you dance like a vulture
My beauty breaks my skin
Harlots decaying culture
Town shadows we’re dying in
So, I’m sorry. Just know I tried.
I howed, I whoed, I whyed.
I sifted for gold and found broken bones.
The river and its fever ran back to the river in my eyes, streaming down.
They cut me open and fell in, on that stardusty path that brought us here.
Don’t you see?
So from whom do I run
On the Grand Desert Calypso?
His fingertips slip
Leaving cascades of hurt
The burnt gaslight
I embrace the best. The worst.
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.
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