The Chair Of Orange: Caramal Poem by Sebastion Amarti

I sit here, on this plastic caramelised chair
Which incandesces a bountiful Orange,
Wasting my youth— watching it pass by
In the mouths of others. I have cultivated a reason,
Whether it was cultivated in my premature birth
Or in the death of innocence, I am naturally atoned.
But, it has developed and kidnapped my old age.

And, the ripples of Caramel
That are ever growing sticky under basking
Stick and harden unto my peachy wrinkles.
I have no scrolls written in the tombs of my soul,
Or hard palates of bone, or in my capricious heart;
Though, I have a bitter aesthetic that sparks alight with my sweet idleness
And births a child that is ever crooked, ever humming and ever dripping.

Much is the dust of merigold;
Here is orange paste, orange skin, orange clippings and orange sittings
That blight a grin on shady coronas.
Curley drapes that hang swiftly over the night
Shade the foreign crimson of the dawns;
My fingertips are bitter to a touch, and I vastly split
My breath from a skull stuck to the chair of Orange: Caramel.