Disorientation

Somethings are best said through blank scriptures in sheer silence, but pulling the violin strings of a poet strumming to personify pain, with tempests of torment rushing through thin veins, would only widen twisted tunnels for ink to bleed in vermilion lines of broken thunder. For these lungs have long thickened from scraps of pretend promises, to dress them with mountains of flawed flowers, oblivious to the colors that suffocate, black hearted devils hovering above treetops of tainted roots. And when the angel of death descends to steal the steel within my mind, I question the vampire grey hearts that kneel, to raven midnights beating tunes of truth across glacial valleys of mourners. Why is living a gruesome terror? Where artless spirits sleepwalk along olive lawns, as grass snakes sing deceptive schemes- with the reaper that strolls through a funeral of fairies, collecting weathered wings and bleached skeletons buried six feet under the graphite soils of salvation, confined within garden graves of deception, designed In unearthly roses dipped in poison. If only the sun would rise and see, how I am no longer plagued by the vision of you destroying peace within your kingdom of hypocrisy. I am not your puppet pirouetting through hellfires ignited by the thorny knuckle of a megalomaniac— chanting manipulative mantras of a destiny, devised from disorientation. I will always sing my own stars amidst suppressed scars, until the moon trembles and falls into the heavy depths of grieving seas streaming in salty sapphires.