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Poem

When streams of paper roses,
bleed bitter fragrances,
evil mists of leaves slowly fall,
drifting along autumnal 
breeze of yesterdays.

And i question
unseen dirt trapped
between sharpened thorns:
what if the sun,
at the end of your horizon,
seems brighter
than the skies in my mind? 
What if days are a little longer
than the spoonful of quiet nights
you’ve fought? 
Would you still paint
hollow bones of every skeleton
in your glass closet,
with black and white traces
flickering through
sociopathic holes and into
the windows of your rusted soul?

But what if, all this time,
you’ve been seeing silver linings
through ruby tinted glasses,
whilst steadying
your befogged sight with the core
of the devil’s unspoken mantras?
Maybe, the fault is in what flows
beneath your thick flesh,
that refuses to let redolent air
to rush in, 
unless wicked winds
orchestrate songs of your
delusional manifestation. 

So unlock the rails of
your iron heart,
follow me to the fields
of fluorescent fuchsias;
for I’ve always dared
to speak invisible visions
of my scarlet desires,
as I run with teal green wildflowers,
where pleasure spells my name
across lawns
in soft lavender dusks.

I fear no mourning monsters
dressed in golden feathers;
virtual vultures 
speaking in demonic dialects,
waltzing with energy vampires. 

They pretend to be angels
of cyan eden, oblivious
to the burning hell they reek,
exhaling scripted sentiments
of sanctimonious metaphors. 
Whilst rhyming with a 
cruel conscience,
seeking for meaningless endings.
They craft empty 
expressions in
ghostly recitations,
revised to ruin 
every starry sphere, 
where achromatic ink-sanity, 
remains reluctant to 
follow me and my moon.

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