Vacuous.
A sliver of moon,
Slight but sharp;
A rapier forged in the fire of sin.
Feigned delicacy.
Her minimalism, a pretense;
Beneath it lies her ****** truth.
She dances to the tune
Of the manifold wails of the wicked.
She sings a soft siren lullaby,
Luring the hearts of the weak astray.
Down the path of her legs
To the trap of her thighs,
He follows her beckoning croon,
A wanton plea from her soulless eyes.
I watched as she wove
Her beautiful tapestry
With hideous threads,
Colored red with falsehoods.
And when it was finished,
She draped it over his eyes,
And I knew I had lost him for good.
For temptation had blinded him,
And ensnared his weak heart,
And into the darkness she took him.

it's been months since I bothered opening my eyes before the birds have finished their song and the sun is casting 5 o'clock shadows on the faces of those who work and strain and cry and just want to put food on the table for their loved ones. I never thought about what was just below the surface what was edging towards the eerie fog about the lake just as I turned my back. you told me flowers always sprout when rain and snow and hail and sleet and every form of tears god could throw at us whip your face and you're still not crying and why aren't you crying you're bleeding and I'm aching and have you ever thought about how clouds are just vessels for rain and how maybe you're a cloud and I'm a torrential downpour but I'm more like a thunderstorm without the lighting because nothing shines like your eyes when you hear your favourite passage read aloud and I hope you hear my voice in your head I hope that omnipresence you always complained about comforts you when your bed is the last place you want to be and I hope you dream harder than rocks falling down mountains until maybe the figures you see in sleep become real. until the apparitions you claim have plagued your mind are left with no safe house and no real home and you can box them up like pictures and firewood and the couch cushions with the stains on them like Why the **** didn't we get those cleaned. why didn't we clean up our mess why is the window still shattered it's getting cool at night and the blankets are itchy and the grass looks comfier than cots in prison cells and what kind of prison cell is this with birds and lights and piers with boats that never seem to come in and lighthouses that never seem to guide them home. like nothing could ever guide you home, like nothing but light and wind and waves crashing and you'll probably never see the captain again. the ship is never sinking but the captain died many years ago sending smoke signals swallowed up by the clouds who lost their rain.

So now,
Losing the three last night,
Takeing them back today,
Dripping and dark the woods . . .