I remember
it felt so nice
the sun's rays
beating upon my brow.
I didn't notice the blisters
forming
breaking
leaking
the heat leeching out of my life.
The color remained but
the moisture was gone:
all an illusion to help
them assume the blood
was still pumping
through my veins.
Soon enough the
veils blew away leaving
me naked, brittle,
barren; halted
as if I had come
across my own name
in the obituaries.
So I stood, seeing no where
that I wanted to be
instead, & slowly was buried
alive -- (?)
-- I was on the seeing side
of a one way mirror:
me, motionless
observant of their movement;
they, completely unaware
of my displacement.
I was coated so well in my
isolation that when
they looked deeply
into my eyes
they thought they saw themselves.
I started to believe
it would always be this way.
Hadn't it always been this way?
Though when I felt stirrings
I noted them with indifference.
Rock by rock the
mountain that sat on me
was removed
& yet I remained in place
waiting for them to be replaced.
I don't know when it happened
but one day
I noticed the flush return
to my cheeks
& the floods that were
collecting.
I am finding
my voice again.
It sounds so fragile & sweet.
I hate it when it rings in rejoice:

For the saddest thing
to me is that the flower
struggles all spring to
bud & blossom,
ignorant to her fate
of finally blooming
finally becoming ripe
only for Lucifer to pick
to braid her into his hair
before he falls.