Woven flesh knotted with the confines
of my inner plague.
             A misery of reflections that I would
wish never to gaze upon, as I'm my own
               medusa, confined in stone impressions.

And I transfixed upon my own morbidity.



But then you gave me a tattered box.
                    It's confines rattled like aged bones.
A melody of death sombre in its gifts.
                  I collected them and used the
              webs of decay to knit them hanging
                        like lynched memories swaying harshly.


With this chime of
                               syllable decomposition,
I heard your message.
That even though every gift is concealed in a darkness,
                                          there is always a moment
where its brighter than any luminosity given by the light.

With the day after Christmas
We return to the normality
Of me not looking at you
And you not talking to me

With hands deep in our pockets
Holding tight the spare change
Where we don't loose what little we've got
Or give too much away

Where all that is seen
Is the blind destiny
As I climb over you
On the rung of what's in it for me

With the day after Christmas
We're back to where we were
Not trying to be
Such good boys and girls

Where a grudge I unwrap
And think bad about you
Wait a minute that
Was the day before too

Where we take peace on Earth
And good will towards men
And pack it away
For another year

Where the Government
Sends us back to the war
With no earthly idea
Of what we're fighting for

Where we don't listen
To the cries of the children
As all of this happens
The day after Christmas

Cradle me in-between the
suffocation
                         of your lies.

For when I breath a new...

I know that every word is spoken
               with fresh breath.


Not tainted by
                the past exhalations
of what were  
                      expelled from you..

Love finding
Her sweetest reward
Dancing on the
Edge of her heels
Running through wild poppy fields
Flying inside  
The
Wind Parade
Turning clouds into lemonade

the cast
we make
from
this
iron mold
reflected
through
the
eyes of your soul