Siting in the silence
of my dreams
In the depths
parched dry
by their screams
they lie

Every chance
they were used
and abused
Bludgeoned
and egged on
all for nothing

I remember
I remember
I remember
I can't forget

~
Ladies-in-waiting
reflecting on
a fragile state of mind

precarious creatures, these
hunters of coal
that outlines both
eyes and words

black paint for blue girls,
they pray in a circle
for their queen's wedding night
to be one of celebratory rapture

deep into the looking glass
they peer for a sign,
a soul, a stigma,
but cannot see
beyond their own glib faces

a universe ago they
caparisoned as pixies
in sunflower corsets,
twirling in a centrifugal forest

tonight in eclipse,
in their all-together,
they merely wear masks
of their former selves

the firelight dramatically shifts
in bacchanalia pratfall
--the oblong menace
of their smiles, fingers and navels
dancing to the age of Sideria
~

****** angel slept

in silence

softly curled into a ball

a sweet song in nylons spirited

away in dream rapture

(Inspired by Carlo C Gomez’s ‘The Lacemaker‘)

We’re manufactured girls,
designed to be beautiful and pointless.

Everything we tell you has to be true,
we feel we can open up to you.

We’re decorated and prepared for sacrifice.

We can touch your tender isolation
and reinforce your inadequate truths.

We can mirror your internal struggles
and help you shape your damnation.

You’ve caressed our powerless distress
a thousand times, with sleep's dark hands.

Don’t feel your destroying something beautiful

You know, when privately accessible
in the darkness of your man cave
our soft, immediate shapes
excuse extraordinary behavior.

That’s all we want.
.
.
A song for this:
Genesis. by RAYE

The earth is
Dying of old age
But if it’s me,
That dies first,
Hopefully I get
To enjoy what I’ve
Enjoyed in its
Presence.

The warm and tenderness
Of unconditional love,
Or the passion behind
Nerudas words,
swim in the transparency
Of the freezing rivers
That embark their journey
On the vertebrae of that
Shackled Island
That I used to call home.

If it’s me that dies first,
Don’t let those who
Speak my name see
What I have become,
Let them remember me
For who I was,
Hollowed eyes,
From restless nights,
The incoherencies
That I speak,
The laughs that
Surround me,
Echoing until
Eternity ain’t eternal
Anymore.

When it’s me that dies first,
Take me back
to where I was born
Bury me under the sapling
Of a flamboyán tree,
Love and care as much
Maybe more than you have,
Watch me reborn, grow,
Become magnificent
Dressed in orange reds
And greens.

Finally, carve unto me
The words that I’ve written,
watch me grow old
like I did life’s ago
And forget about me.

one wanted to live by the sea
within wooded retreat

one does not know how it happened
but it happened to me.

subtle personal agendas;
flies in the spiders web.
to have escaped, is rare.