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Opened my veins yesterday and poured in the twilight |
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With its dead promises. Nothing makes sense in an imaginary |
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World that no one can touch. In the strange hours I dream of evenings |
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Under moonrise and of fashioned ideals before they could turn |
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And go, had seeped their treachery into my widowed summers. Is this my lover, this face of death? I recoil to |
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The unmoving view. |
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The soft, voiceless emotions escape the exhausted frame to assail |
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Tomorrows empty heaven. The dawn, with its dull smell, fills my nostrils |
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And the stench of a burning sun separates the hope from silent lips. |
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There is something painful in the first spring bud of life, it tears at the insides and claws at the doors of |
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Tenderness |
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That riseth in black forms from an obsolete graveyard. |
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To cast my eyes on the horrors you have created or to turn and gaze |
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At the clouds? It remains cold and dark and the painless times revel in |
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A distant memory that only seem to trespass when the night is clear. |
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The bitterness tastes sweet and it conjures up images |
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Of a narcissistic funeral |
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That injure my dreams |
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Narcissistic dreams |
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The wordless world bleeds to the point of despair and the failed attempts to move end in quiet massacres. The |
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Lurid calm is a stalking mountain that eludes the perceptive eye but eventually overwhelms to send us cowering |
