Below the surfaceless
looking above
under the furls of wavering clouds
all you'd see is that untouched stare
an absence of warmth disclosed
elapsing over,
collapsing over
you

Shallows edges so elusive,
as obscure as a serpents nest
anonymous as the rest,
intrusive like these dated feelings

and yet those eyes like minds wander
wonder as if it's ever been to lie beyond
those gated passages to Edens flowers
a pocket of hours been laid before you,

Ghosts.

And the continuance to roam
inside of these channels
left empty and vacuous

so out of depth,
with filtering essence of memory
faltering lights of ambiguity,
letting the pieces drip upwards

you’re alone together with what ties are to be had
you speak as through the pith
of this insecurity,
the plight of this immaturity

a footstep in the waters
spilling from your tongue.

Venture from the beginning
a start to finish
as though time bounded in ripples
your tinted sight lines
undesigned and impalpable
even through strategy

under the palms, your hands,
the happens mind of another kind,
settling not in stones but
in sands
a habitual mess of ingraining
always draining and seeping

never enclosing,
fostered only by a feint solace
in the flooded catacombs of yours.

A participance of midnights moons
in these swimming conversations,
cycled discussions
the rising tides of snake eyes
with one onerous touch
submerging your voice

into a fragmented drowse

burning notes left from pictures
choking out all that swirls
the delirious magnetism of weight that pulls to you
creating an astringent terrain,
as your blood is spilling down

a pipeless drain.

A manifestation of ego's brain bubbling down
under the masque of self-worth and integrity
into a thick mud
painted with entitlement

across a dotted line

the deeds of your fascinations
possessions to another
inclinations unbeknownst to you,
against the black skies
opposing truths of deflection

you find yourself with silkless ink
writing what you think it to be
beyond your skin

and the closer the pen drips
the tighter the bolts become
on the grips over your perception
a darker rainstorm

straining out
lifelessly.

Pressure slowly eased
into soothful washing
though cliffs eroded from memory

cresting the hall
that remains beneath

as a little boy
with glassless eyes
and a mouth full
of rose thorns,

Greeting you

To the welcomes of goodbyes,
until the shrill whispers
of the sirens of deception call you

once more

threading over your faces
elapsing the rims of reality,
overgrowing its garden
into a shipwrecked valley

warped by tainted reveries.

“Perfect,” Karmen replied to herself as if she never laid eyes on such a cowardly man.

But what else was she to feel while the Ethanol streamed down towards her liver as the dusk struck the perfect night. The bench sat perfectly empty with beat up metal and delicate yet fearful drops of God created sorrow. Perfect hazel eyes frantically reached across nameless disasters. Searching to find herself, a young girl. What makes a young girl? Stripped innocence gazes at the stars dead along the disappeared past childhood.

"Bees don't cling to their hives anymore, why? Why aren't the bees scared of losing their survival? Should I not care about dying? I don't. I never will. The strength of infatuation was too strong for me, too strong for me to break away from. He killed me perfectly. Why am I shivering? I feel his perfect arms. I feel his touch, but he is gone. Long gone. The bowling ball missed the pins, it turned the wrong direction and now he's gone. His assuring hands ripped away from my reminisce as the hurricane of my tears wallows from the fear of never being able to be held again," she slurs to herself thinking maybe someone will listen to what she has to say. But no one does, no one’s there.

Sip. Sipping. She poured the empty flask down her throat holding back the burning sensations of love. Love doesn't exist. It's the thought of love that rushes in between her sight. Her blurred sight, that is never quite truthful. Every anger was perfectly misplaced and hazel eyes knew waking up had become overrated. Broken eggshells consistently crack and the ice was now too thin to walk upon. Lust. What was the feeling of peace?

“Perfect,” Karmen repeats the flowing expression over and over hoping it means something more.

Drawn between the next bottle and last bottle shattered, Karmen rests somewhat patiently for her uneasiness to pass. February was coming to its clutches and composure was in the wind.

“My mother, I am not her. I can’t be. I won’t be. Pathetic, perfect pathetic pity. I pity the part of myself that carries her such demeaning qualities. The apple dropped from the aged tree and leaped, but it fell back, fell back with enmity and defeat,” contemplating reasoning to her calamities, Karmen won’t take the blame for herself.

It has now been two years since her mother had passed. Two years since she drank herself to death. A perfect death for an alcoholic. A perfect moment for Karmen to be selfish and make the death about herself. Her mother always needed a miserable man to perfect her endless time. Karmen has recently felt the same need for perfection. It fades. Fades perfectly out of conscious.  

“One more is forever one more, and two more is too many. When is enough, enough? Does being satisfied actually even exist?” the questions drained like a pipeless sink and Karmen was left to sympathize her own decisions.

The suffocating night seemed ceaseless. Where was the closure? Where was the desire to move on? Where was the perfectly naive girl that expected more in happiness? Everything was transformed in that instance. Her witty smile and her hazel eyes, they turned to dust. Dust that held her sense of relevance.  It was all perfectly unsound and no one was there to recognize such defeat. Karmen took her final sip as her veins filled up with cheap fulfilling ***** and she was gone. Long gone. Gone with the bowling ball that steered the wrong direction. She wasn’t going to let the miserable men control her existence, she wasn’t going to be her mother. But oh how the tables have turned and it seems as if the irony killed Karmen herself. With her final perfect sip, she blinked her hazel eyes one last time.

“Cold, cold is the source of all pain and loyalty. It reaches its peak and then it dies along with the soul,” Karmen’s voice whispered as it faded out with her blurred eyesight.

She was her mother. Karmen was the perfect image of her mother. Karmen lived the perfect death of an alcoholic and held the perfect selfishness of one too many sips. She lived the resentment she carried and tore at the seams. Birds only chirp as loud as their highest pitch, and Karmen had simply dealt the only deck of cards she knew how to. The perfect ace that finalized the straight flush of her own savaged childhood.