The Girl On The Floor

DrearyAnn dressed her thoughts

In renaissance corsets and faux leather boots.

So much the better to envelop displeasure

And dissatisfaction from critical abuse.

Daydreamed hours drifted on vainly,

Vaguely insane, with morbid visions juxtaposed

More vivid and vibrant than others imagined,

So blatantly tragic in sadness predisposed.

Dreaming of dreaming of such things

As the darkest of a single dream ever saw.

Laced with lavish desires entwined

With desperate needs towering overall.

Draped in dreary phantasms galore,

Alone and on her back reposed,

Around her and over passer-bys step,

Unknowing or caring what fantasies formed below.

 

Vanity & Reflection

“Whoever do you want to be?”

The astringent mirror asks of me.

“Does the image your perceive

Contest the one that you believe?”

Of course, I cannot help agree

That what it sees is not all it seems.

Staring into my gleaming eyes

To glean from them what fears I hide,

And yet I know what I would find

If I looked straight through my mind.

I’m not what I believe or see ,

The mirror reveals and deceives

As what constructs identity

Is not imposed by vanity;

But, then again, it still is me,

As much as I am physically.

Pale and pallid, tired eyes,

And other feelings I despise.

“Why do you not answer me?

Who is it you want to be?”

I burrow through my troubled mind,

But nothing there solidifies.

I know I don’t want stubborn lies

But what I want, I can’t describe.

“I guess I just want to be me,

But I don’t know who I should be.”

The mirror replied,

“You’re lying.”

And I replied,

“Shut up.”

Secret Plague

Nobody knew

The extent of the infection

Brewing deceptively

Beneath heavy lidded eyes.

Neurons distorted,

Broken down, reassembled,

Gestating contamination

In unsightly disguise.

Nobody knew

What sickness subverted

Their pallid perceptions

And drowned them in doubt.

Walking around

As raised from the dead,

Buried in the head

And lost their way out.

Nobody knew

Who they should find

Or what sort of mind

Gave voice to their soul.

Helpless health

Sealed snugly in disease

And quarantined beneath

A plea to be alone.

Cold Blood

Serpentine,

Emerald green,

With ruby lips

For forked-tongue kisses.

Slyther in,

Smoothest of skin,

To taste the breath

Of a peaceless rest.

Venomous

And pleasure-less.

Teeth through the vein,

Blood chilling, in pain.

Spasming

While raveling,

Widen the gums

For warm-blooded lungs.

Sacrifice

A willing life

In desperate love

With your cold blood.

Why Is There No Perfect Place?

A world to be happy in,

To be lost in,

Just to rest again

Without this stress,

This uncertainty,

This anxiety,

Taken hold of me

Having hurt.

Show me mountains,

Show me fountains,

The sublimest

Of their kind.

Let me stay there,

Waste away there,

I shouldn’t dare

But I would

To sleep forever

In beauty’s tether,

A watcher weathered

Down to rocks.

Defiance In Love

Lucifer fell

Into the quiet twilight

To look through the window

Of a secluded home.

Her silver wings chilled

In the pine-scented air,

With the frost on her breath

Rising against the glass.

The last waneing candle

Threw light to the form

Wrapped up in a blanket

Collapsed on the floor.

Hand to the frame

And her face pressing close,

The light and the shadow

Danced over the reposed

While frost ate away

The one brain who still knew

What depths of tribulation

The Angels went through.

The insanity of fortune,

The lunacy of life,

The meaningless chasm

Of fractured love.

Reposed on the floor,

In seven breaths or less,

Of a sudden and quiet

Didn’t work anymore.

The death of a dream

Like a paradise of light

Lost from expectation,

From memory, and sight.

Lucifer fell

Away from the pane

With a sigh at her lips

And eyes shuttered with rage.

The frost in her wings,

The misery that aches,

The cruelty in love

Of defiance to faith.

 

Corpse Conscious

Visceral reality

Blood, muscle, and flesh,

All elements of the body

So palpably aware.

A carnal revelation

In litanies of pain

Written by dissection

On cerebellum walls.

So pliable and weak,

So simple to restrain,

So sensitive to touch,

Manipulatable and soft.

Do bones of the starved

Congeal into demons

To slake their thirst

On our living blood?

Do hordes of average men

Yearn for satisfaction

In the sight and feel

Of our mangled forms?

Should I desire much

To be just a ghost,

An incorporeal dust

Just floating alone?

And how would that soothe

The screaming I hear

From a younger sibling

Whose cat ran away?