soot, steam, broken beams
the moon gives off its sickly sheen
Mars and the stars
might make a good team,
but lightyears and time warps are not what they seem

badly behaved scars are finally burning out of fashion;
this sunset-stained skin is just a distraction.
if space is a vacuum,
and devoid of passion,
if violence is golden and we pray for inaction.
then the love you couldn't feel
for the things you had to steal
just wasn't right, and wasn't real.

so bow to the stillness, surrender and kneel;
pretend the darkness if not nipping at your heels,
pretend that you are made
of molten gold and liquid steal.
for your lashes are ashen, your cheeks are charred.
your footprints are formed from embers and tar.
your framented fingertips are immutably marred.

and she never intended
for it to turn out this way -
for her rotten heart to seethe with decay -
and if you ask her politely, all she will say
is that she did her best
to keep the twilight at bay.