I dress in black to a funeral
to mourn someone
that i used to know
let her haunt me
like a mantra
her former skin
her former bones
her former heart
her former mind
her former strength
her former spectra
i am the ghost
the pale phantom
in her mirrored image
my former self.
We all have temples
And ruins in ourselves,
Yet I got to be my own devil.
Full of fatal advice
Was the altar in cold Styx
I set myself upon.
(I, a princess perished afterwards.)
But with these meager, mortal eyes,
Had I ever seen anything so terrific
As the face of a god?
Fever in my palms.
(I, a goddess of madness now.)
How I prayed fervently for a love
that shall make me holy, whole,
and sacrificed myself to the devil I forged from fire.
A home more than a house.
The kiss of The One.
Mending schism between two minds.
When I stopped praying for such doomed ambitions,
and started looking inward,
I find in me my Deliverance:
The love of my life.
Harmony of the head and heart.
it is wet blood that clings to my lips
Invoking it, choking on it
I have summoned You
Haunted as I am,
as desperate as I beg to be possessed,
I release You —
For I know by nature’s law,
the living does not belong with the dead.
You use it like a currency
One coin — after another —
when slipping through the mouth
of a vending machine
is no longer enough
You shove and pound on!
Until I gag:
When I ask You:
“Do You regret gambling away
in me the Life that was promised
as a wasteful investment
when my open hand holds only
You answer with conviction
suffices to convict me
“Blood is thicker than water
so I will try harder”
as I swallow — each —
and — every —
— well — meaning — copper —
flood my throat
in the ****** beautiful taste of Love
I shall never starve for Love
if only I had the stomach for such Food.
The splendorous veil
gave listless nights character.
Like a fretful child's shallow dream,
waiting for the lighting to shatter it;
Or waking to neon lights in utter blackness,
Weariness coated with melancholy of boredom,
Discomfort and disturbance at the finest.
Such a sweet thing, such stillness,
A mix of sulphur in the air,
and the savor of ripe fruits rotting.
Its vacillating presence roared
with the village's dirt.
The tiny sticks of burning fuse
Formed a ring of fire we called shrine
That worshiped the spirit of liberation.
Unadulterated laughter was our prayers
Of the present soon-to-be told in retrospect.
Distant nights in Eden was heavenly.
No blooming roses, tall trees or the moon,
but a wallow in the decadence
of rubble was as good
as a midsummer night's dream.
To a.g., and all the clichés that suffice.
Here lies the Ocean’s haunting question:
Is it a curse or a gift to be who I am?
Who are you then?
Soft touch suffices to smother.
Songs that scream with thunder.
Hidden depths enough to drown.
Through the sound of the waves
Swashing, breaking, stilling...
The answer of the Earth dawns
In resounding cadence:
A storm is but another name for baptism,
And the Gift of Life I embrace.