Headlines: Inanimate god snorts verses

Prompt- Picture 12:

You mainlined midnight, in search of an escape. -The Moon is a Kite, Andrea Gibson

Most of poetry is volatile and much of it is flammable- gold cyanide milkshake dreams, olive oil-stained recipes, lost grocery lists, crushed tulips, telescopes, quarks, quatrains, orient, occident, being pushed headfirst into waters, lyrically flooding, swimming, soaking, submerging, your breath fastening.

Compensating prosody with the limpid musicality of mornings dipped into marmalade jars,

surrendering to a decade of hurt, housing an old loss, swallowing tapeworms, folding a tumor in an edifice of seven volumes in your amygdala but forgetting the word on the tip of your tongue.

A poem is about having a 7.9 Richter quaking in your chest cavity, being in love but never knowing what with,

In a drunken city singing of gulmohars and lovers;

A signboard at the highway exit that says-

This too is a dream of your own making.