We dance in flames lit by the rebellion mother. We dance in flames crying each of the fallen names. At life's breast, united, smother Fear - In support of each other we dance in flames
Mother Rebellion
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We dance in flames lit by the rebellion mother. We dance in flames crying each of the fallen names. At life's breast, united, smother Fear - In support of each other we dance in flames
Chipped polish on keratin Formed instruments of misery Against the carved ivory candlestick, But played in time and one half Between clicked wooden heels And shuffle scuffed leather toes. Shrieking warped wood boards Bemoaned the restless pacing Until eased by the storm’s drippings Rolled from the oversaturated linen. Youth kept the nightdress white, Precisely creased on double pleat Perfumed in almond and rice starch. The insipidness of immaturity Creeped up the ironed dart lines To satiate the linen’s thirst for spoil, And seeped into the recurring path In a bogged mix of clay and blood. The sludge had smudged the vows Between the ruby and diamond ring. Lightning had taken exception, Or so it would have seemed, To the metal cockerel above the well. It’s striking boldly lit the sodden grass To illuminate a solitary jacquard spat Encased, leather, side button boot. He’d sworn himself inconspicuous once, Yet adorned himself so pretentiously For the eyes of the unwed maidens On the night he was intended to wed. The dusty manor house windows Did not hide the ostentatious footwear From the overwhelmed on looker As she bit her nails cuticle bare. Had he simply fallen, she’d be asleep For the drunkard had overindulged On pints of overtaxed Thames Gin. But he cracked his crown on limestone Before his legs lost the ability to hold His brainless form to full attention. Inebriation settled most heavily In the bones of his shaking wheeze. Had not the split of his mindless skull Incapacitated his conscious movement, His well wished departure would be, To the greatest of detest and chagrin, Replaced by opiate coma numbing As his bride rode Peeler’s prize In a carted cage of lucid lunacy And cursed language of wicked folk. Luck had been her bedfellow, Strength her mightiest gift giver, And determination: her kind muse. No sooner could he groan in ache Than his moaning was quick silenced In the crunch of crumbled spine That met with a barren dark age well. Her hand warmed by the liquid wax, She stopped pacing to reflect with joy At the sickening sound of lifelessness.
I am years of depression in the making, A broken concoction of self-help and self-hate. Progress, the weapon utilised to silence the audience, Is just as fake as the smile I paint on in the morning, To hide the desire to either laugh at my suffering, Or to will my heart to cease beating. I am composed of trauma’s melodic refrain, And I am played over my own disturbed backing, Pretending every moment is a blessing, When really I am gluing my pieces back together, Finding discarded shards all over my psyche, Pretending I am on a journey of self-discovery. I am bursting at the seams with rage, Sewing myself a harness to contain my mania With the snapped threads of my heart strings. The blood thirsty fever dripping from my jaws, The seething grit that sits in my grin, Aims as inwardly as it does outward.