Rose Lilac

The mockingbird’s wings trill,
As the heart in her stays steady and
The rose lilacs move about letting their petals flutter down.
They lay heart inside heart
Ever so often sensing the trill of the other person’s rush
Of warm security

The heartbeat makes it real as
The end is nowhere near them.
When all else fails the heartbeat stays at its steady pulse
Moving at the speed of light
A rush of emotion fills both of them simultaneously
And the depth of the two arises.

Before the words come out of his mouth he stops himself
For he does not believe these feelings are joint.
Although this is so, the flooding feeling is burning inside her
He sees it in her eyes
And suddenly the words pour out and all inhibitions are gone and
The ****** of emotion is reached.

As the mockingbird’s wings trill,
As the heart in her stays steady and
The rose lilacs move about letting their petals flutter down
They lay heart inside heart
Ever so often sensing the trill of the other person’s rush
Of warm security

As the bliss of midnight approaches them
The clouds shed the light of a cold moon

Leading their lives together, the end is gone
And the illusion they feel,
Cannot be repeated

Drying is the fluid of love,
Solidifying and holding them still in time,
Longing for the night to persist.

They know the morning approaches,
The expectation of the sunrise means an end.
The end of night is the end of all time,
And as unfathomable as eternal endings are, it still ensues

Moon setting,
Sun rising,
The contradicting feelings swim,
Uncertain of the future their love has ended.

The bliss of her death, as the blood runs down his fingers, consumes him, and the sharp pain absorbs him.

Until the night and cold moon flash again
The two will lay with security as true as the sky is broad.

Now I’ve got time
For you.
I finished the arduous task that has provoked
So many feelings.

Though you say I’ve learned the temptations
Of warmth and security are yet ever so quaint and inviting.
But as the feeling ensues, the warmth of
understanding, reason, rationality, and security
then provoked with such severity that I, indeed, cannot
fathom or explain to you.

The sun rises on a new day with a new face inviting me
To walk along
As I walk I wonder if the dark passenger
Of my past, will beckon me; I carry him so lightly on my
distorted, mangled back and I wonder if he will take me with open arms engulfing
and dragging me into the depths of the fake hell that I have been
so involved in

And to my demise I feel the guilty pleasure once more.

The infernal machines loudly portray their thoughts
When all culminates they taunt me.

Hysterically laughing at my blunders
No machine can make a mistake
Banging at the doors of the psychological house
Of my nature; my brain

The infernal machines, steam spewing; combustion fumes fill the air
Choking only me to my breaking point
The unforgiving hardness of the machines
Touches my skin with severity.

The infernal machines broken…
With no more fumes or steam lay torn;
For machines cannot feel the security of warm blooded touch
Beating; bludgeoning
I weep at the hardiness of their steel in that cold basement in which I dwell.
I smash them with my emotion (now I taunt them)
Watching the deprecation of the beasts’ rusty metal.

But…
With a sputter,
The infernal machines awake,
Building their factory over my rose lilacs
Where you and I once laid.

Those machines of my psyche
No longer allow the good in me
To be released out of this bubble of depression
That consumes me when I am secluded.

But humming below my feet,
Droning on, they heat the floor.
My path always leads back to the machines.
Believing the lies, they whisper to me.
Beckoning my ******* self to the bottom,
of that basement where the floor is no longer,
a grate, but a slab of concrete.

As I approach the stair, a figure stops me,
“Head my warning. What you seek, or feel you should be seeking isn’t there.”
I repressed this.

As I walk, the sound of the machines slowly haunts its way to my ear.
I strain to hear and when I arrive the machines are off.

I sprint through the basement, but it seems they have abandoned me.
In a mad dash, I frantically search for a working machine.

But to my demise have forgotten,
That machines cannot give nor receive warm blooded love,
And for this reason I sit waiting for the next sputter of the evil machines,
For it is all I know.

So uncomfortable in my own skin
Walking through this empty place
Flat, no hills, no valleys
Just grass

I come to a well and in it is me
I see myself and ask myself questions
Why am I here?
As I stare at myself I can feel a new set of eyes on me
I turn and there is me again.
Why am I here?
A third set of eyes snaps to me and yet again it is me.
That same old reflection of insecurity.
Why so insecure?
Why am I here?
So quickly a new set of eyes gazes upon me and then off of me
Holding nothing but my insanity as a constant reminder of the grotesqueness of my character.

The well’s bucket holding my heart;
I looked at it.
And what a surprise a picture of me.
The well asks me why I am here.
I reply with a shrug.
Indifferent of the situation I walk.
Seeing myself everywhere now.
Why am I here?
I come to a different person, but all of my qualities reflected off of her.
Haunting me to my extent, I *****.
For I do not deserve this.
I’ll just give in.
The bitter sweetness of her presence is enough to be fatal.
Looking in her eyes I see my sorrowful and diffident self.
I give in and turn slowly towards the well…

I walk to that well…
I take the bucket off the string and pour out my own heart and listen to it splash at the bottom….
Tie my knot…
And hang myself…
Why was I there…?