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.
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