Three-Peso Glory Poem by Agatha Portugal

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

towering above

darkness
ate what was clear liquid then

now flowing under
the snaky slope -

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

Inhale
suspend…

then

she rages out
fog from
her thin ruby
speakers

now

her veins,
uneasy;
mind,
queasy;
trembling…
almost kissing earth
but she was
aloft with the

stars



floating…
gliding…
spinning…



spitting…

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.