Agatha Portugal

Three-Peso Glory Poem by Agatha Portugal

Bright solid yellow
distant crowned ball
amplifies the depressed
and sallow spread
of orange spectacle

towering above

ate what was clear liquid then

now flowing under
the snaky slope -

there stood
frailty at its’ best;
leaning further
bird’s eye view.


she rages out
fog from
her thin ruby


her veins,
almost kissing earth
but she was
aloft with the


glid ing…


every fragment of
your haunting
façade that loiters
in her wasting
heart, twisted
mind so,

Aeolus blew her

hidden moans away
to Olympus
for that brief moment

whilst, bit by bit
she converts:
a cold corpse

as she
puffs chains of bitter
haze from her tank
crumbling inside
of her.

She was spent.

Submitted: Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, November 26, 2013
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