Alien among aliens,
Fanning delicate fins to promenade
A prim coquette and starchy cavalier
Trimmed and tined in ossein finery,
Sipping shrimp cocktails, dancing demure
Circles before blushing coral courts,
Holding hinds in groves of turtle grass
Until the paisley bodies
Bump bellies, and she imbues his pocket
With inklings marooned in dreaming Pegasus.

"Grey, I wish I was you!
You're so happy!
You never give up!
You never struggle!
How do you do it?"
Daily, I get told this.
Always saying thank you,
as if my vocabulary bit my tongue,
spitting something else out,
someone else into my place.
My throat burns with screams
I can not release,
as if my own carbon dioxide suffocated my thoughts,
leaving a waste of capacity within the room.
This paint consumes my face,
concealing any trace of reaction
that I want to give.
That I need to detoxicate from my chemical unbalance.
I want to speak
but the flood of anxiety
grasping at my air,
makes me too terrified to be heard.
If I was heard
no one would believe it was me.
They would all look around,
and say nothing,
worshiping the silence I yet to give.
The consequences hide behind the lines,
that my mind can't bend.
The ventilation of my corrupted system
backslides into error,
shutting down the coordination
of my world to come.
Turning my everything
against the collapsing forgotten,
that I didn't raffle for.
I didn't sign up for this
scenery that rotates my sights to the
desperate calling
of a separating cell.
"You look so different, Grey. Have you lost weight?"
Oh, thank you for confusing
my sorrow
as cackling ossein
that lost all their symbolism
as a whole.
Why satisfy the ocean
if the waves tug between
the used and abused.
How did my appearance affect the way
vitality takes place
between the lines
of an open book
that I elope
with the desperation
of being found,
Being saved.
“Why do you sleep so long,
even though you went to bed at 7:30?”
I don’t sleep for the sake of depletion from the world.
Sleep calls from the numbness attached to my dangling limbs,
the rumination of death,
but somehow,
still isn’t convinced.
Why bother to contrast me
to the markings of the sun,
if only to be controlled by the skin.
"Sweetheart, why are you so quiet? You're never quiet."

I've a deep thirst
for the blood in your veins.
A craving to kiss the flesh upon your ossein.
My heart aches for an answer
from the heaves of your breastbone.

Up
and
        down.

Up
and  
         down.

You inhale,
my breathing stops.
You exhale,
my heart throbs.

My thirst is unquenchable for
your answer remains a mystery.

To those who want to start an awakening in minds willing to listen
To those who have wide eyes, bold pupils and furrowed brows staring unspoken words in the face.
To those who want to begin a movement
To march
To yell
To pause
To breathe
To those, you must remember
To admit defeat, but never to apologize in the standing.
To keep walking, because even if you shake, a step is still a step.
Push those toes in the ground like its warm sand.
Feel every grain on your feet, thinking of the story of every one of them and what stone they came from.
A stone once skipped across the calm water by a young boy and his father, making memories that last forever.
Or a stone once stepped on by girl somewhere and a boy picking her up to carry her back to the car, knowing that he was going to marry her one day.
Breathe
Dig your heals in the ground...
Stronger than that.
Plant your feet like a tree that's been there for years.
A willow tree whose roots reach the opposite end of the earth.
Whose roots are far too deep, far too grounded, for even the strongest to yank up
Stay. Grounded.
To those, you must remember
Stand tall in your posture with every vertebrae lined up, creating a tower of bodies of ossein reaching to the stars in your brain.
All stretching out to grasp a part of the infinite cosmos in your brilliant head.
Full of unheard of galaxies and not yet discovered planets.
An entire new world to explore
To those, you must remember
To want to start a change
To bring awareness
And to end...
Just to begin again
To those who will start an awakening in minds willing to listen.

Catacombs are full of bones
snuggling in the disgrace of others.
Hipbones piled on top of skulls,
the absence of lower jaws
denying the departed a smile,
the eternal existential joke
of insulting the living
with the knowledge
of their ultimate end.

Femur, skull, femur skull
is the monotonous pattern
of the Paris catacombs.
Two hundred six reduced
to two, an afterthought,
ossein denied an ossuary,
even the unity of skeleton.

The Capuchin Crypts at least
grant a molecular dignity.  
The entrance mummies
are part of a gruesome holy décor
draped in the faux pas of passé styles,
yielding room after nauseating room
to the essential two of Paris,
femurs/skulls clustered
in paisley amoeba patterns
projecting snaking vertebrae
of dendrites, of life replicated
with the cross on the wall as
the ultimate center and end.

Did their former owners
know that death would
be the end of ****** control?
That for a ghastly and sacred art
they could be united forever
in indiscriminate unity
with their enemy or lover?
Would they have opted
for the grave knowing
that their ashes could
easily be blown into
the breeze that survives them?

'the chief of organic substance 'mind' network,
outlasts as a residue behind the removal of the 'magma' resolutions from polished 'bone' by dilute hallucinogen,
is exercising the collagen make of 'bones',
time travellers for ossein, in search of 'One' that sleeps awake within, the show has been cancelled and yet a whole universe is watching,
ectatic goosebumps felt beyond heaven,
rips the skin, neatly as a whole within none.'