Opals

Creasing lines that I am
Folded, imperfect and hidden
Blackening and ornate
The hard rock opal past.
Browning or pearl,
I will see into it and
Bow my head
With the burning flush of soundless violins.
The rushing or the tearing,
Or the whirring and the dying
Or the harsh grinding of accents
When the planets collide,
Or occasionally align
In a opal sunken continent
In between us.

I writhe
From the lines pressed against me
In acidic, hairy crossfire
In felt tip agates
Drawing lines harshly and childlike charm
In the banal greys of my body.

In fourteen opals
Laid clearly out across the fountain of sound
But the sand, it cascades and the scream breaks me
But I rebuild you with cold, anti charm
For the hexagon shrinks and chokes, not resisting
The points of love underneath.

Delicate and being pressed
From the raids of shadow
The stench of birds, the invisibles beaks and cold hard cage
The key or something I must create
From the nadir towards the warmest closest secret
To blast or knock gently on her.

Between thin paper lines,
Of translucence and utmost microscopic layers
They have lost me in the curtains, and in the princes.
They are shattered and have pressed and grinded
The dull bowling opals, mine
That I want relit and returned.