063: Teethgrinding in Heaven

A miniature coffin laid down,

without a sound

from the stonefaced crowd

steering 'round the cenotaph.

More woman than child

and less child than that

weathered avatar.

Where undirected tides go,

beneath a hungry moon,

from a soil dewed in tears,

flowers bloom of rot

in delightful creation.

Imperfect angel descent

from the stars gazing back,

we come together

and I shudder to think

I'd choke on a mouthful

of your innocence.

Human dirt still tastes sweet,

like the growing pains

of a world suspended

in the instant of our lives.

An alchemical balance frame,

which way do we go from here,

maybe the rising will tell.

Purge.

Repeat.

062: Atlas

Paint your love red on the walls of my abode,

so the thin marrow may outgrow the bone;

I've lived so long in the shadow of the sky,

my wings tucked deep beneath dead skin,

waiting for one that fits my loneliness

to kindle the rush in my innards of rust.

Chained dearly to the mountain on my back,

made in the shape of every writhing thought,

I'm building an exquisite silhouette

for you to match, but I was always there -

self-portrait of pain, ease in distant deserts,

still kicking ego on the frozen slab.

Discard all judgement when the nails go through

and I'll find you shying inside my serpent clothes.

042: Healing dance

Information amok besieging the gates of reason,

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.

040: 3 days

Within the halls of seeping time,

in the glare of your footsteps,

tonight, on such a sacred night,

my soliloquy resonates so barren;

there's no answer form these tender bricks,

the veins of my temple are sewn shut.

Silver serves the red, to open the skin

of a butterfly wing, of a crimson king,

of an animal fighting its shadow

for the last splinter of sanity.

The night decays, yet you fail to see

how the fireplace caresses still

a newborn ember from yesterday,

petrified to a fractured rhythm;

I don't fear the winter, freeze my tears black,

for you may destroy this temple,

but it will be raised anew,

with every dusk and every dawn,

until the moon drowns away

in silence.

036: Dissolution of the unborn

From beyond ramparts of time

and columns of rue,

they sing and call to their mother,

echoes storming the firmament of bone,

their song to my pain, the words I never said,

winter flesh, siamese grief.

Beneath the roots of my castles,

their frail bodies linger,

bugs traced on a windshield,

bellowing deep, till I fall asleep,

build my temple of dreams

stone by stone, preciously,

a religion of images iced, sanctified.

My children, stretch your watery wings,

for the abyss knows your names

the way I never will.

I'd force the arms and stress the springs back

to return to the source, the starry womb,

for every word unsaid,

every glance unreached,

every line not crossed,

every name not written.

In golden sand, the imprint of your mother's face,

her unbearable beauty

still burns like an open wound.