She seemed to be like a delicate portrait
   which had fallen from its gilded frame
Abandoned, lying face down on the cold winter floor
   An elegant portrait once painted
In resplendent hues of indigo blue
Her eyes told a story of bittersweet
   magenta colored sorrows bathed in tears
that etched themselves throughout
   The frail intricately, woven canvas of her soul

Over time thoughtless hands had subtly
   Contrived to manipulate the beauty
Of her painted portrait into a resemblance
   Likened to that of a cold, chiseled statue
Carelessly molded by calloused fingers
   Lancinating the fragile fragments
Of her spirit leaving her heart
   With etiolated worn fabric - called her life

She dreamed of Icarus soaring down
    on silvery wings of steel shrouded
in cobalt and lavender clouds
    with outstretched, feathery fingers
lifting her up to dance a Stravinsky ballet
    As it was meant to be - not how it was

She was a beautiful, fragile butterfly
    bruised by a world much too harsh
for her diminished spirit
    leaving her unable to fly away
from the skis thirsty rains
    making it difficult for her to fly away
from the skis thirsty rains
    It left her struggling to stay afloat
In the springs melting snow

Life had bruised her tender skin
   Gnawing away like insatiable insects
On her delicate pink frescoed soul
   Leaving her feeling
Like a fabricated manikin on display
   For all to pose her as they may

Muddied soil was the blood that coursed
  through her veins, holding her tethered heart
in fleshy, mounds of chocolate brown earth
  It held her helpless in its hold
clogged by the silt which descended down
  Into spaces of her soul…
Like murky strings of yellow tattered maize
  Leaving their ragged tassels tangled
Throughout her life flowing veins
  Choking off the blood she needed
To nourish her hungry heart

Mighty winds toppled her willowy limber tree
  Snapping the delicate boughs
Of her outstretched arms
  As they pulled at the tender fleshy bark of her skin

She stood cold and alone
  In the icy winter night wrapped
Only in her wounded, naked flesh
  With open, bleeding wounds
Under the icy blue mist of the winter moon
Her heart and soul painfully revealed...
   In shades of indigo blue

I imagine a fresco
I've painted on my ceiling
you centered in the plaster
stretching out your hair
curling swirls of shadows
dark hair, dark brows, dark lashes
glossy black for your eyes
so they can reflect me writhing
trapped in the paint of my pain
a silhouette in the sheets
willingly lain

Sam@071617

You can write your life in elegies, the culture still remains the same
Some say we can make the truth or zero-knowledge from song and dance
Old and aged, insatiable and satiate our addictions lancing us on horses hedonistic
If I were a psychiatrist I'd read you, talk of zero summers, in Hebrew biopsy and medicines, a free think of hope, dangerous thing
But, soon wildflowers will be writing about you makes it worth selling, trouble bed's made and occupied by ***** and mead
If I were a state of mind, I'd be a person of my lines of stares
I write these as an essay on the highs of cultural expression, Tanks can also be a form of cultural expression
Maybe it's oppression on the fire of the year of ten soldiers on the freedom of the nightlight and lively likeness if we were searching for lost gold
It's a way we write about the memories and have free will and fears too, truant about freedom often losing courage and killing kings, queens often make out of it really sad
Rarely, raffle, rabble fiefdom, caviling censuring frenetic energy, virile yelling, on the catatonic hall in the cat in the LA Alhambra hall, or maybe souls pass in that dark hall
It is in the falling stars, into the years as they go by on the fault line of insatiate desires, burning fires in the circles of hell
Arriving in this Le suiva drama or friends in our pallbearers of different friends married to different soulS
Hangovers and everything, black and blue, white and black I cannot tell that the kitten is following in its the prologue of lithe likewise following the battered suitcases on the ways, and long ago
Something like this friendship and relations, festering autumn, seasons change and the summers brings the music of the piano man, Billy Joel
Plays in the freedom that reeks of freedom in the hallway, reflecting in the drunk cigarettes, starched shirts often come in the forum of swarth men, in the frescoed building painted with freewill to achieve
Heights for freewill and tumescence in tempestuous objectivity, of how we look at life, grades of herons, Freud's animals degraded in this foxtail, a plant across the house
In yonder tempered mental gaze, it's struggling to solve these worlds in fewer drinks and more works
Works offered their dreams, we offer the night terrors and midnight mistreatment
Treatize odyssey, riches to rags, muses can call me in my sleep and leave me out wry
Dry

We swirl like the dragons
Free from dungeons and darkness
In eternal salvation like salamanders
Although we aren't lizards hanging from trees
Hung up on life and disease
Breathing the air of autumn leaves
Dancing with the breeze, and ceasing to exist
Sending you our energies in the form of soft lullabies
If you can add to the good, you can keep away the evil
You can bring peace to yourself, and others in desperate need of quiet
You can be free from the peace of mind
Understand freedom in a nutshell, hanging like frescoed paintings
On top of a shelf of porridge and crimson red cherries, pears tresses
The parchment of each other, writing well within the textual framework of partridges in a pear tree
We can pray together, or remain silent forever
In vow of silence, and make lonesome Lumos shine bright like the kites running after in eros
Of the atmosphere, silenced forever, we sing lullabies for the ones to hear in their peace
A man with a peace of mind can understand silence and hold his tongue in the palm of murmurs
The sound swirls through the dungeon-like darkness, hunger for a touch of soil in the cold icy winters
We moon over these things, and it dawned on me that silence can last forever
And it isn't always good or bad
Sometimes it is evil to press and good to release yourself
Expand your mind, and be shapeless like water crashing against troughs flowing streams of fruit
Rivers could ripen, feel the song yonder deepen your soul
We wash these tears, from the eyes of agreeable people and disagreements come to me in a dream
These dreams are made of arguments and debates, I reason with myself unable to ever wake up in the morning
Howl from the depths of hell, and arrive on thin lands watching us with thin eyes like mirrors on cars, add what is specifically your own
Arrive in heaven, better to reign in hell
I'm lost in paradise on this ruin of thy moon and stars
Looking away from the fingers pointing at me like apples and bumps
Words are for the lugging carriage, to carry out their travels in their worlds from battered broken places
Wry comments from the crowd, and some cages of parakeets singing in kisses
Snakes in the grains of rice, stopping us from hissing from our caregivers and calling them unforgiving
Without food, I do not think I could live on
Without a mirror, I do not think I could live ignorantly with this hubris
Ran from the house at the age, I don't think I could live in such a cold climate
Raising my glass to my birthday invitees, they look at me blowing the birthday candles out, I'm in the seventh circle of Hell
Knells and bell tolls, ceramic steel galoshes, bitumen, and hydrophobic gum puts these dharma bums chewing grass together in apple streets full of cosmic debris
That look young and pretty, and pestering me with a limerick for some hypnosis and mirages in this solipsism
Aging like a dragon that used to burn out the flame of Hell, saving the morning again and again

If you're so cosmic, why don't you explain life to us from the Beezlebub spell, little dragon

Mendaciousness amiss, my teenage
Fillibuster, towards my frescoed haired fray

Etude and capricious aria fawning in veritable aversion
Casting aspersions, with much alacrity

Surreptitiously digresses whilst crescendoing sucre sedulousness
Aspirations forced with petulance and force Carpe Omnia, rather jejune

Creedence clearwater crepuscular Crimean wars, perfunctory indeed
Katydids antediluvian lintels limit ospreys that fly across desires of frost

Dry dreary doth dubious dolorous dunes do much, take me too
Destined to dream beyond dimly lit dimes that count as time
Desired ecosystem

cracked teeth, yellowed marrow,
a canary screams out in the mines,
she’s singing my song,
“have it be the last,
have it be the last time.”
what last time?
a bullet pokes a hole through the air,
pokes a hole through her feathers,
her fair breast,
a lassoed string hooks under her beak,
cracked, reddened marrow. - turns her face Rorschach-like,
a deformed beauty
the sight is bleak,
privileged with anomalies
her wounds, twitch,
flesh riddled with breathing cavities,
a corpse bloodily *****,
she screams again,
sounds like bell chimes
a frescoed casket,
lines of paint aligned with the lines of her veins,
a mourner’s veil dances,
entrapped in the crooked wind,
not a sound,
not a sigh,
not a song,
just the sound of-
bleeding heartstrings.

A sheep herd burned in the road, monotonous sibilant calls
House in the dirt, coal eyes felt no pain with the fire of inner visions
He shrieked in descending flames, yelling in his religious abode
Crowned boldly without reprieve for his drunken soul
God, why have you forsaken me
Ad lama sabachtani crying on Everest megalithic of lithe souls burning
Have you got a moment to hear a match-lit forlorn rag, these words burn me in my throat
In the form of quasi-knowledge, I can still hear the shrieks of madness
Moloch, Moloch, Moloch and neon traffic lights shine across the square
I'm at the crossroads of my winding life searching for truth
Speaking about conformism while understanding the crushing penury
Leek, green grass, that's all these sheep can eat
The foggy scene killing my joy frescoed in her mind without wheatish flax seed
There were no seeds to sow, the land was fertile and we could sit for another folly time in this sold-out show
Watch the thunder die with the snow as the student takes Thunderdome

When sun hangs low and Rome is swathed
in faded gold on winter days
Like Nero creeps the hooded night
To set the dimming skies ablaze

The Emperors now seem no more real
than painted figures on a page
Than onyx head on cameo
or villain strutting on a stage

Those tyrants with their pleasure boats
their marble spas and saffron pools
Who smothered guests in flower drifts
and set their palace walls with jewels

Who lazed in frescoed gardens filled
with citrus fruit and roaming beasts
And gorged on grapes and peacock brain
while hosting wild and lavish feasts

Their temples walls and aqueducts
still stand upon the Hills of Rome
But now they bear a jaded air
like moulderlng golden honeycomb

And so we build our citadels
and rich make fortress of their wealth
But none can halt the March of Time
that sieges all with lichen-stealth

Indeed it matters not if one
is born patrician or a slave
When even those who don the purple
face the shadow of the grave

Their palaces are relics now
once gleaming bronze is stained with rust
While pillars crumble, marble cracks
and flow'ring Empires turn to dust

And 'midst this splendour and decay
I think of all that once was mine
Of ruins and the sighing pine
as sun sets on the Palatine