a dead trumpet, resting on the desiccated lips of a fallen angel, a desolate scorch of hemispheres
blasted and puerile...
primal dross from the furnace of all agonies and heaps of time, hoarding hours in pain to multiply the bias to ill fates as a happiness, her madness has never known
[ on the inside ]

a dread comet, branding the optic nerve of a blank stare
into oblivion
in a closed loop of integrals of self hatred
outlasting the venom of god's scorn, by an order of magnitude
her blight, dwarfing the locust swarm of dead suns
bleeding black ink in journals that document her heart's delirium, in crude states -of silent rage at a billion decibels
[ on the white page ]

a barn door, torn from the hinges of a tempest and marble goats, chiseled from a monolith of dark thoughts
to be sacrificed on the altar of pitch dark
there are sigils that burn in the dense fog, and everywhere a banshee of rogue hope and a siren of fine dreams....
and here there be oceans
[ and no map ]

legions of invisible hornets living in every atom of two red lips

lips that would kiss and be kissed
but seldom disembark from tar pits and windswept tragedies
and fell words that plunder her true thoughts for anything
toxic enough to **** the conversation with a lost god...
bilious fountains of lost joy
sterilize a pregnant pause. and yes
aborts the spirit

[ from no throne ]