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Romona Hardy Jul 2013
I am not here
my existance is merly an illusion
im nothing but a body
who died worlds ago
im a walking corpse
who feeds off your pain
i breath nicotene
your melencoly is gasoline to my fire.
Ever so gently i run the scaple along my face
in stragatic places
i peel back my skin
like a mime i change faces
i am not me
all that remains to be seen
is the rementants of a former self.
With a needle and thread
i stitch on a smile
a lie i always wear
as the pile of lies keeps growing.
I hear his voice taunting me
i see his manapialive eyes in mine
everytime i look into a mirror
darling come closer
and tell me who you see.
bulletcookie Dec 2016
The very thought of you
strums time out of day-*


This baked wilderness defies emptiness
as cactus flowers bloom for none
in sun's blistering sorcery
as scaple sharp, shadow surgery

Of this sovereign heat spell
bleached dunes give way shells
crackling weeds, sentry sands
let arid Bristlecone land

Downward rooted and hoary
fibrous fingers sprout steadfast
retelling scrub brush stories
of phloem wine, mirage's vacuous blast

Clouds, in debt to ocean's soul
owe, are owned by Helios aloft
shape shifting steamy billows
promising royal anointment

Then this evening after life
when all is but spent in scurry strife
let it dwell upon a dream
of leopard rains and keystone schemes

Before silhouette night's numb lull
forcing close to petal's remit
in desiccated continental drift
prepare this silent will

-cec

— The End —