You bring the gasoline
I'll bring the matches.
Douse this place until it's drenched
No one will know the mess we've made.
Dancing in the flames
With the Devil by our side.
Playing in the fire
Melting hand in hand.
You bring the guns
I'll bring the bullets.
Like the cowboys of old
Draw in three, two, one...
Nothing but coldness
Wet blood on our hands.
I'd say you're to blame
But both triggers were pulled.
Lets drink this poison
Toxic waste in our veins.
Heart pumping venom
Racing through our bodies.
Look at this mess.
A beautiful catastrophe.
This morning before
I ever lifted my head,
I turned to see
Your half of the bed.
And what a harsh reminder
Of how I'm growing old
With your side of the bed
Still unbearably cold.
Your sheets are not tossed,
Your pillow unpressed--
All lovely reminders
Of my current distress.
Was it not merely a month ago
That I was curled against your skin?
We were perfect puzzle pieces,
Your shoulder to my chin.
All day long
We would curl up and sleep
With nothing like time
And business to keep.
But what a terrible disease
Lurked inside my mind.
I never thought I could be
So selfish and unkind.
If only I had known
I was capable of such sin
I never would have let
Our cursed romance begin.
I could promise to never
Let it happen again.
I could take my pills
Like I refused to then.
I could be so much better,
My darling, please see.
If only, if only
You'd come back to me.
Listen closely - entities murmur deadened names
even in the still of night, their cautious eyes
turning milky with unheeded warnings; you
taunt formalities and are unaware of
intricate patterns of old (awakened by
northern winds). Somewhere in the distance, a
grieving voice is heard. Yet -
Given the chance to partake in this
offering, you solemnly turn your face away.
It was as if I’d never left;
a strange stillness in the room
settled upon my flushed skin
and stayed a while like an old friend
peering through the flimsy facade
of the night’s torn stockings -
strange familiars echoed the night’s whim
and satchels hung from low branches
unforgiving, weighted from defeat
and unrelenting wind, a scream
of a whisper in your ear
If only I could take in this world
before the soft distortion
made us unrecognizable
even to each other.
And come Springtime, I will be gone
having flown away with the last sparrows
still cradling October winds, hearing not
the desolate sky that still chastises us,
What have you done?
But here in this stone-echoed fortress
I pause now, carve tallies with dull instruments
and care not when my lungs threaten
to cease their movement, fallen soldiers of old
A gleam of a smile,
carrying the briefest of stories
from ages ago, and aeons away
you shall not know,
you shall not know.
twelves tables run amuck
and still we swore that silent oath.
the elder, wise - all-knowing
eyed our childish glee, clasped hands
in wonder or perhaps resolute dignity
we traipsed down to the meat factory of old
eyes yearning to take in the negatives,
refracting the light of our shackles
and drones of silenced shrieks became
the purest tapestry of days forgotten
timeless still, were the tables
offering these courses of carnivorous delight.
Our cockatiel flew away last night
mourning calls echoing its loveless flight;
we peered into fading skylines above
and the gloom reflected this absence of love
Towards bramble and trees, it solemnly flew
past the old church steeple where the ivy once grew;
did it truly exist? Or a mere illusion rare?
The sky as its foothold, transcending its lair
We placed bronze weathered cage outside the door
in hopes that familiar markings would entice once more;
yet, as dusk illuminated this age-old secret
of feathered flight, deadly risk - we dare not keep it.
Memories scattered like driftwood are
dispersed into oblivion by feisty currents
frolicking with these heavy stones
Linger with me in this timeless quiescence;
gingerly pluck teardrop intricacies
from my ebony-dusk saturated hair
In our secret place obscured from judging eyes
No one shall know our names, though even so
names are quite obsolete in this dance of old
Don’t look back, lest you transform into all we abhor;
Cold, unfeeling, settling heavily to the bottom
Clawing - always clawing - but unable to grasp redemption
We must hurry, though, for the tide is rising.
And we’ll be gone before they can even think
of stealing us away.
gray pallor shadowing your countenance
is all that I remember of that fateful night, yet
somewhere in the distance, past the old church
bellowing mournful hymns and aching visions
a lark's call, mournful and sweetly echoing
through leafless trees abound with secrets
settles into the weighted soil of my heart
takes root amid these broken eggshell dreams
one final plea - join me in this obscurity -escapes
your silent lips like tears from your unseeing eyes
pale upturned face
seeking my approval
all the while stealing
glances at the old clock
I nod encouragement
even upon witnessing
tiny stumbles over words,
sharp precious stones
small fingers hold its spine
steadily turning pages
ancient as elms
trapped in wooden crates
their likeness not unlike mine
I marvel at flitting images
from my fleeting past
and savor in my mind
times when my own tiny fingers
held picture books, novels,
all the wonders of this world
and not yet had to cradle
a loved one turned to stone