Incarnate

Angels are unable to handle these 'Sylvia Plath' sorrows, hiding their halos - mute to my concerns. Love has abandoned me, left me to decay in an open grave, where flesh eating insects devour my motionless corpse. Yet, I'm a victim of my own demise, stranded upon sand dunes, as a martyr for sacrificial offerings cursing my selfless 'lighthouse' conduct, guiding lost ships through tormenting storms. In fading light, I'm shivering, lips quivering, resembling a solitary ancient oak tree, with black, bitter bark, freezing, despite June's sunshine blazing. My once golden roots, now sour, weaken, crumbling under hardened, heated clay. My 'Frida Kahlo' soul resembles a weary traveller, craving for manifestations of rain. Dehydrated in darkness, an orchestra of demons, lurk behind misty shadows. Epitomized incarnate images of Satanic messengers, stalking in echoes of self - slaughter. Impersonating chivalrous comrades, seducing the sanity of my 'Oscar Wilde' mind. These 'Van Gogh' eyes exhausted from existence are a shroud of obsidian mystery. An embodiment of emotions, feeling pain scorch in deep crimson stains, eternally engraved like an unwanted tattoo - yet they remind me....  I'm still alive but I know there is beauty in death.