Inova Obscura

since our litter, was down to the last...
hope to find our resting laurels
to rest upon the keeping silence
of a creeping cough, in the
coming days traced quiet
features, never costly days
walking hairless creatures;
Lastly days were met in the
hour'ing fields, grooming our coats
from the greyest of greys, black
haired women with black haired men
handsome ones now, combing
the littered children from their boxes
naming them after our grandparents,
naming them after luckier ones.

How was mate? Or to
consummate -- We ask to indulge
but never consummate. Oh,
oh, oh. Ive got heads and
I've got arms, but these little sticks
were born to farm, women from
fields of growing chambers, plucking
pictures of placid wit, nooking tired
wordless welcomes, carried to the
den where we barefooted out entrancing
soft stomps. On our walls hung honorable
colors of our past lives, ones for the brights
and ones for the blues. A handful of brunette
straw, prickled palms were blood was drawn
for her smile, for her leave. Grasped cups of
brunette straw, staring into the flame
or the fields, we left such devotion in our
blankly minds, only laughing now in
languid times.

This was beautiful and gorgeous, now I've just gotta try and understand it. This seemed happier than previous pieces.
it's both about something specific to me, but at the same time is a vague construction of longing happiness after the absence of children, either from inability to give birth, or abortion.

I think the end sums it up, the joys of laughing while close to someone in a time so awful or absurd.
missing a "h" in "were blood was drawn". Where.

I like languid times very, very much. Great word choice, and languid keeps the feel of the piece with the drawn out sentences and descriptive passages.

This is the Matt I respect more as a writer.