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Beth Ann Burford May 2013
The beauty of evil is the good that transcends it.
We are not victims, we are survivors.

You are a canvas.
Personality paints your eyes red and your heart blue.

Nothing more than a mortal shell.
Everything we adore is harbored in the backs of our eyes.

Beth Ann Burford Apr 2013
everything will be illuminated.
Teeth lacquered in glass shards
will bite down on plaster hearts,
Yet the sweet perfume
of your rancid breath
Will never give us life
nor Death.

everything will be undisputed.
Vapid tastes will linger on sordid tongues.
Cover your mouths, irascible ones!
The race to end has just begun!
Beth Ann Burford Apr 2013
Envisioned - tight eyes
fixated on the delicacies of
perfumed skin,
vile in sinister auras
that cannot be smothered.

You will blame your victims
and put your theives on
Pedestals made of
Diamond-shaped tears.

Cover your mouths,
your thick, bitten lips
Red and raw.
See yourself reflected
in the whites of her eyes,
Blue lips snarling,
tasting sweet misery.

Strip innocence from
Flesh and Bone,
you filthy Pig!
Beth Ann Burford Apr 2013
You turn my heart into an old oak
The saplings on my branches
glow and groan
for sweet rain.

Envelope me in your
satin vines,
Let your soft skirts
brush along my ankles.

Like the violets that reach
their faces towards
the sun,
Kiss me
and let me taste
Sweet Nectar.
Beth Ann Burford Apr 2013
What are words but sounds and consonants?
Semantics give meaning.
  Reason is misleading.
   Forgive me, I am dreaming
    of a day when trees stop bleeding
      for your written words,
        your sounds and consonants.
What is worth
    but a series of crowns and continents?
Beth Ann Burford Apr 2013
The lights are brighter than usual tonight.
They demand attention with their glowing, yellow faces.
It only makes the cackling women in the corner of the cafe ignore them more.
There is an unspoken consensus that these lights are to be avoided.
I make the mistake of looking one of them in the eye,
only to be blinded with a flood of yellow.

O, what remnants our paths leave so silently on our bones.
We never can quite brush them away to gather in dust.
How I wish I could be the dirt under your fingernails.
How I wish I could be the stubborn lint upon your dress.
O, how I dream of never pausing.

How I wish to be the bitter taste of slumber on your tongue.
These thoughts are interrupted by the blinding light above.
Pull me from the water only to **** in a lung-full of air.
I want to drown in your eyes.

What a worthy way to go, I say,
what a worthy way to pause.

— The End —