I fashioned myself a dress of black lace;
Dark and elegant, epitome of grace;
Soft on my skin, caress like a lover's,
My comfort, my design, a haven of covers.

They called it macabre - filled them with unease;
Dangerous, they said, termed it a disease.
And yes, I'm unwell, but darkness is my veil -
A reprieve from hell, solace without fail.
I am the tailor, the sculptor of shadows,
The reaper of melancholy my art sows.
And yes, it is odd, fragile, morose -
The marble thorns of an obsidian rose.

The judging whispers that follow in my wake,
Can't comprehend I do this for my sake:
The sharp edges they call jarring and cold -
They are my palace, impenetrable stronghold.

Where others see emptiness, I notice lace,
The gossamer threads of a misty embrace;
They are but blind to the kingdom of nothing,
Only see moats, and wall canons jutting.
My castle of ghosts, the court I control,
Those remain hidden, deep in my soul.
The siren song, my foggy lullaby,
The velvety clouds on which my thoughts lie.
It is morphium, made in my mind
Embroidered dullness only I can find.
The words bounce off my protective bubble,
Your bombs shatter into a gray rubble.
I blow it away, along with my fears,
I got good at this, during the years.

Give me some credit, I am no fool,
Where others would drown, I can rule;
I know not to freeze, when water's too cool,
The fire you'd burn in, I use as fuel.

Yes, it's a thin line, I know it best,
But I'm a trapeze-artist, can pass the test;
A veteran of trade, the air is my nest,
I've learned to live without getting rest.

And I know my limits, how far I can press,
Worry you not, I've survived on much less.
I'm not glass, disperse your concerns,
If need be, the lace to razor wire turns.

All my darken dreams, that made me scream,
with time, they started playing on my mind,
So, I started writing them down
because they were painfully real
I even started getting ill,
yet, they started inspiring me to write
just like Charles Dickens, and Emily Dickinson,
they all gave me a reason, no matter the seasons.
- Judy Emery © 1979 The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery

Parallel lines
They never go
Simply understood.
Longer than never
In a million years.
Long dreams
To always have the sun
Chasing oriental afternoon.
Simple life simply joy simply life
So much of time
Feeling so little.

The gypsy hymns and railway trails
which you followed into the valley of your trials
Lady Luck brought you enough street child wisdom and thief given kindness
to turn the tracks around and the train whistle to wake me.
Desert saint of your weathered ways
with your thin wrists and moon gleaming lips
Hope to you was like a blinding sunrise, painful to acknowledge, yet sorely lacking without
Never could be without your Larkspur boquets and marigold wreaths
August heat heavy with the scent of cypress trees
Apollo of the dusty sea, flooded the cliffs with light like withering flames
born from boxcar visions and a desperate hunger for that windblown hallelujah we chased down the starlit trestles like missionaries. Summoned from our streetcar medallions, vagabond nymphs, rumbling through moth-eaten states and barren dusks, lazy moon gazing upon our dolorous times and wild days and all our rough and rowdy ways.
No need to heed the judgements of the stars.
With the arid land so wild and lonesome- we weave our own muse into the railway line- followed back to when you were my home, and the streets were the laurel crown of your vagrant fortune.