Slow was the first pulsation of this heart
but fast would its thrum be through life.
Mother read in the stars on the chart
that we were to embrace you as eventide
embraces the light that is soon to depart.
You unsettled us with the fixated yellow grin:
we knew sanity and your smile were apart
from the moment you held the bluntest knife
and set into mother’s skin a most demonic art.
I drank the ink
poured down the sink
then sank a little lower
I wish to think
with lenses pink
I’ve wisdom of a knower
But I confess
I am a mess
as shown within my stanza
So I shall dress
my deep distress
with adjective organza
I gave the voices your tongue to hear their words in the voice of another. How differently I hate myself when the recital of criticism takes on a separate tone. The ex-plosives are missed as your snipes detonate in an uglier timbre. The richness of that trill is taken as an ever renewing esteem tithe, gradually depreciating my self-belief’s valuations so the bare bones can be given back to the earth cost free. Would the words you made me delete have made any difference? They’ll greet me when I finally give into the bitterness and momentarily regret all I hadn’t the chance to regret before.
Drops of boiled beeswax
poured into the lap of eventide
fixed up the familiar face
Soul syphoned as tax
with lips forever widely untied
yet draped in smatters of lace
Bright acrylic lacs
whispering old words that formed and dyed
a novel paint palate case
from feeble watercolor tears cried
at night end's bitter disgrace
Broken into scraps
less than what it could and would provide
more than all it could erase
Locked behind bones wrapped in brocade
an indelicate escape plea
screaming inward for a reply.
This bustle will surely outgrow
the short lived modesty debut.
One could claim you're on a crusade
offending nobles in a spree
until it's protests can outcry,
overpower, your own deep woe -
setting you down, trapping anew.
Perhaps you'll set to work, or trade
Or marry yourself a marquis.
Resolve your fate with one more lie:
he undressed you patiently slow
then treats you as more than a screw
Knotted tightly in my psyche is a feral call:
a plea to return to an unvisited place
where unfamiliar arms can bring rest.
Routine saps the life from my soul -
within safety it writhes in silent agony
Lacking nourishment unknown - unnamed.
Hunger looks inward to survive famine.
Ravenous claws stripping only prime cuts -
psychological filet, served bloody and rare.
I will be the last to walk away from me.
The world unrecognisably cold and damp
under the footsteps of a more fulfilling life
I know this night, I know its call.
Agony wears a harpy's grin
to tempt the lungs to drown within.
The bedfellow of cortisol;
this life raft needs prescription scrawl
before we're buried in its skin.
I know this night.
A panic button protocol
shotgunned with cheap raspberry gin.
Hope: the very first deadly sin
that chokes us all against the wall
I know this night.
with all of it's surgical precision,
cannot wash away your scent.
Sweet burnt marshmallow
pooled in the final sands of the hourglass -
a tar to keep the coffin sealed.
Stale espresso left in the morning dew
whispers that it tastes the same -
a brew far more bitter than the lonely truth.
Walking in the shadows of your footprints
Trying to pretend I can see you still
Hoping I just might
Knowing I won't.
Wishing the trail leads somewhere final
Fearing there's an end
Hiding from the present
Abandoning the past.
Am I to be poured of cold glass
and dance with death in soft pink gin?
We'll spin upon a tailor's pin
wearing the tarnish of brass.
Bewitched in gaze, sunk in morass,
I tread both lines in mortal skin.
Am I to be poured of smashed glass
and dance soft with death in pink gin?
Reaper smiles sickeningly crass
rapping bone on pondering chin
with a heavy sigh of chagrin.
This moment of visit must pass.
I am poured out of cold smashed glass
while death dances soft in pink gin.