This house is made of ice.
A gelid, brass interior awaits me with wicked vice.

Stepping through the frozen doors,
I fall into my own homely grave.
A familiar capsule with silky floors.

Paintings hang upon each wall,
Lifeless and disturbed.
Although, the images do utter one final whisper before tightening the noose—
“Beware of the abominable master of abuse.”

I wish to float,
As with each step the rivers of blood in my feet howl.
Icicles pierce through my soles;
Daggers with a bright smile...

I am only ever welcomed into this house of ice
With a vast iniquitous price.

I have no home,
no place to claim my calm.

my search for peace will not rest;
I fear for my soul’s journey in death...

as this is a never ending conquest.

save me
a seat on your ride home.

I’m scared
that I will lose my way.

help me
travel back safely.

please,
I beg.

Claim me to rid my mind of misery,
although do not weep when my inner grief
grants you no extra power like the ones before me.

I’m warning you now, dear Beast,
all you can gain from this consumption is weight -
I have no power left in storage - but I beg for this.

On my hands and knees; I beg for you
to quieten my screaming weakness.

I’m grateful for the
calm winds of stoicism
exhaling from you.

The tedious graveyard shift comes around again,
The ghosts and ghouls of my past clocking in.
We meet each other at the silver gate;
We greet each other with the same stare each night.
I wonder if some will stay overtime with me under this moon,
Or if we can led our own paths once more come morning.

I’m interested in a free trial
to the south of soil.

Just a free trial, you see...

Resting for a while in the roots
To avoid such crushing daily disputes.

Your heart is simply your home.
It is your safe place.
Family consists of the things living in that ticker;
it consists of the things you hold close in those chambers.

‘You can choose your friends but not your family,’
I am told by my parent who has caused me the most harm alone...
but with the force of the wind I push against those groans.

The roots of my family tree do not match past generations.
The roots connect to my heart and mine only;
the veins that decorate the walls of my home.

So I bid you goodnight now a stranger to me,
for I am finally free to be with my true family —
I am safe here with my created bloodline,
living happily in this little heart of mine.

I do not yearn for love.
Not romance, nor friendship.
I struggle in this passive isolation
yet I do not seem to yearn.

I am empty in that context.
Never feeling full, nor have I ever before.
I claw and cut and scream for simple peace
yet I seem to be punished with restlessness.

Maybe the peace is found within
regaining a sense of yearning.
Maybe the peace is only found within
the final ‘death’ do us part.

such a heavenly taste it has,
the softness of the intentions so inviting and warm.
I feel you smile against me,
oh how the sun will shine on this moment in my memory.

vastly different from when a kiss isn’t just a kiss...
such a hellish taste it has,
the roughness only being soothed in passing by spit.
your hands are daggers against my hips,
oh the poison of expecting more when you didn’t ask.

which is more fragile —
the mind, or the brain?

I imagine that the wind flowing through my hair
is your hand weaving through the strands,
as I stand
in the midnight air...

I imagine that,
alone in the place where I used to hold you close
as my tears begin to enclose me
in the midnight air...

I call to the sky with dirt on my palms,
the fresh taste of blood still trailing down my throat;
a sense of agony still lingering in my soul.

what more do I need to do
to rid myself of this pain?

it seemed I hadn’t given enough,
so I clawed and took instead —
what more?

her fingertips leave
velvet kisses
across his skin,
wiping the tears
that escape
with her palms.

nothing can compare
to such
a lover’s material.

The righteous white snow
Covers whispered lies.

But soon...

The gore of falsity
Will redden the surface.

Place your hand
Upon the red snow
To reveal truth untold.

I sit cold,
Confused
as to how that can be,
because I have you
seated beside me.

But you are
Drained
of the warmth
I once called
home.

When assigned to nature you must take care of your section. With the top 1% of the top 1% not caring for their section orderly, we must take a stand as bearers of gifts.
Introducing Flower Girl, her mark - bluebells delicately dancing around her eyelids; solution of hydration loosely hanging from her eyelashes. Protector of the bluebells.
Spring, Summer... a jolly state following suit as she beams to the sun above, the coloured flowers upon her skin basking in the energy radiated.
Autumn, Winter... the sun doesn’t appear as often, energy is lost and not just for the bluebell companions. Flower Girl doesn’t reach towards the slithers of sunlight anymore. Blue turns to brown, happiness turns to hopelessness. Solution of hydration sacrificed to the angry clouds and viciously spat back out against the soil.
Introducing River Boy, his mark - fresh, cold fingertips, water droplets as clear as glass stored within his veins. Protector of water, protector of Flower Girl.
A brisk touch to her cheek, their eyes meet. Brown turns to blue, hopelessness turns to happiness. Solution of hydration replaced upon her eyelashes, preserved water finally fulfilling its purpose.
When assigned to nature you must take care of your section. A section for a section, an act of caring kindness for a revived life. Bluebells may only bloom with the helping of water.

in the wild, no one would spare a glance.
no part of you is a flaw in nature’s design.
please, continue to dance with the wind
and let fire rage in your heart.

Move

           to the
                     beat
        
                                of your own
                                                      soundtr­ack,


Before your ears are no longer moved by the notes.

Each moment I spend with you
provides me with puzzle pieces
in an attempt to complete my heart.

Once I connected the corners and edges,
an image finally began to appear...
but you were not to be seen in the jigsaw art.

I step out into the streets,
Ready to mimic the actions of those I’ve learnt from.

I do not understand the gleeful tones and beats
So I adapt another one’s joyful flow.

But I wonder how far this fake peace
Stretches across the land of our one and all.

Am I mimicking the mask of another mime?
I worry for the number who are stuck in a rhyme...

Some may say that the greatest treat in life is candy;
the temptation of its sweetness longingly lingering on the tongue,
an unsung reliever.
But temptation itself is the only true greatest treat;
the red heat carried through all senses,
marked as the sweetest sin.