The enjoyment they gather, from each
Black feather,
Plucked
So carelessly
from my oiled wings
They smile as pieces of me are worn
upon the brows of faint hearted paper mache
Death,
I'm served daily
upon
Silver platters,
with a side of flame
No extra charge
They smile red,
Placing my feathers in
Mine own hair
They like that
Those demons I serve myself to

To hold hope is a dangerous thing
Memories and dreams lacking colour,
living in the glint of light in tears for brief,
and painful seconds as they fall
only to be absorbed by my skirts
Each holding false hope in secret things,
bound to a twisted finger of cruel fate
I hide my face from light and sight
as I breathe life into shadow figures of
Once was, wasn't, and will never be
Undecided if reality is dreamt up by
a cruel child who derives its pleasure by
pulling legs from lady bugs and wings from
Butterflies
And being the escapist that I am
I play out my grey dreams in the fake lives of a family I seem to have imagined
And drown the rest in flowers and filth

She will cradle her own soul
within her hands,
and treasure her precious life ~
holding it tight.
She will not slip away,
like sand lost to the wind.