When I was young,
I used to go to
the museum,
where art was
hung high
on walls—
Higher than
The Hanged Man
on The Hanging Tree.

A painting stood
out in one room,
both beautiful
and terrifying…
The Mona Lisa.

Her essence—
Trapped in her
own framed
prison of hell.
Her skin shines
old gold,
yet etched with
cuts and bruises
underneath Death’s
black robe of sorrow.
Her calm smile
hides a cold secret…

Her dark,
red-veined hair
stretched out
like a river,
yet tangled
down like vines.

Her eyes spoke
her tale the most—
restless and fearful.
Reaching out to
feast attention from
both critics and lost
soul’s eyes,
like Medusa.
I could hear
her echoes.
Almost as if
I heard her
ghost speak
the words—
“Help…”

She reminded me
of my mother…

Love's a loaded craps game, played
by ****** people, lads who dream
a sweet and willing cavalcade
of perfect mates who can't exist
(though in the yahoo's mind they must,
or how would any man get kssed
or be excused the wolfish lust
of ****** people, cads who dream?)