a stop sign is ignored in spiteful fashion,
ask questions but sometimes the answer is blank,
drifting on the river, fishing fragments of passion.
At the end of the hallway there's an unlocked door,
winding steps fly into equilibrium,
tectonics intact from petrified pumping,
still seeking the flame, burn cryptosporidium.
In a late hour, bleeding, reality serrate,
from the ramparts I still see myself, not lost,
with a silver bullet gun to banish demons from the mirror,
from sweetest lips, never ignore what matters most.
don't dance it. Please.
ReplyDeletedun worry. just needed a second word for the title ;)
ReplyDeletebut the first is still there. and i don't like it. You should live with your demons and i don't really know why am i telling this, but your demons are...(in a paradoxal way)...pure [art and tears]
ReplyDeleteyes, the might be, they drove me to this in the first place, and birth is painful, and loss sometimes a release, but sometimes truth, or the possibility of it, is such a hard pill to swallow. i need to see, or at least to assert, a little blinking light at the end of the tunnel, i have to balance despair with hope.
ReplyDeletein retrospect, i'm not particularly fond of this here piece, not exactly my greatest work (heh..), but its sentiment is sincere, i just had to spit it out. i was seriously tempted to delete it, as it also brings back some troubling, unwanted thoughts (all these 'demons', in fact), but then you read and so it will remain.
thank you for your words and thank you for being.