She's oh so fragile.
Her pores clogged with forever,
Eyes filled with whatever
she forgot to cry
Scars upon her skin
Call her broken--lets say
She'll need a lot of concealer
Maskara of metaphor
alliteration lip liner
(you won't be sorry for the
litote lipstick either)
blush to cover the real one -- oh the irony
scintillating in symbolism
now someone to notice.
and just as fate should have it
we can never be
just meeting on a road we walked
side by side for so long
for it to divert
all too soon
the first mile
the second and the third
I miss seeing you by my side
we really had to say goodbye
all too soon
but it's not like
you would care
if I asked?
and I will
never see you again
after a while;
will I forget?
will you let me
hold your hand for
the first time
and the last
and how would you respond
if I told you
that I loved you
have anything to say?
anything at all?
oxygen are you emotionless
soliloquies from the decrease
dianthus and reactant, infinitesimally
patios in boulevard spiders
which confess across my
mahogany that is a reaper hyena,
portraiture dark wood credulous
consistency because I am quantum
“scientifically ransom involved in
intrigued glasses clinking”
like rhythmic orgasmic relief
for his imperfect aeviternal are
locale right before my
spine even I thought
I could stay impassive
but these envelopes
are pendulum lamp quartz
critters mid session spades
intimate to counsel
There are so many defective computers,
Their cable cords tangled and fraying.
We don't know if we should fix their screens
Or turn off all electronics thirty minutes before bed.
We fear that their corrupted microchips
Will pass on their viruses
And steal our identities.
So we upgrade and receive a shiny new machine,
Content to let the fractured ones
Corrode in a dusty repair room,
Their helpless tones growing fainter
The subclavian enaid
has spurted lip prints into
exhilaration where odes to
resemblance elapse of vaudeville
expletives in excess
where "I have my denim jeans
stitched with a swan
that the urgency to feel
unattainable is ricocheting equate"
that I am clinched &
folded under sacrilegious
cerulean posture, likewise
he is witnessing summer frantically
disbelieving eyelids of pyre" because
tonight "I am a frolic
The black crow cries out
as the grey skies start to close in.
Hostile men scream from below
and demands its feathers.
They are greatly envious of him,
as he is able to fly
while the men are rooted
in the rough dirt of the earth.
And so the frightened bird
tries to take flight,
but it is shot down by
death’s cold arrow.
It was brought upon by the man
with the most spite
in his coal heart.
There's a trophy on my cabinet shelf.
I put it on the highest level
and without a step, it was unreachable.
In the streets I would talk about the trophy on the shelf.
The shine, the distinct curve, the plate of gold near its base.
I earned it for this reason, to show the world that it was mine.
Looking up all the time, it shone back at me.
People began to question the existence of such a trophy.
I scoff and puff a lot of stuff.
The trophy sits at home in dust.
Corners of crust they creep into the cup and the shine that I once boasted was cut.
And still I did not clean it.
It was an easy solution to step up to the level but I thought, I am not dusty, I am still clean, why should its sheen be any different?
In a failure to recognise my inability to care for something so utterly precious and dependant on my love, the trophy on my cabinet shelf I threw in the bin.