Notes About The Poem
Written for the contest Poe in the style of Plath sponsored by Tom Woody
Song Of Demise
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
I think I made you up inside my head.
-Sylvia Plath
I see no reason to rhyme,
but an aching heart,
stranded in the midst of nothingness,
as quill rests in a nameless
coffin, like a trembling corpse.
Words woven in tears
glisten like rain,
amidst rustic pages
within a book of bleeding ink.
While
I, the deep darkness,
ponder, would the moon
ever grieve for the sun,
or will she allow waning
stars to abandon
her doleful realm?
As her face
shifts and turns through
phases of changes-
and her soul like
the weary winter,
withers into white-washed wounds.
I am the hazy mirror to
a lunar goddess.
There shadows betrayed
this cruel conscience,
roaming within forlorn vales,
swirling through a woeful wind,
to nocturnal sonatas.
My mind nestles like
a raven resting
at the treetop,
calling your name into
frozen oblivion,
laced in secluded silence,
echoing amidst obsidian fears.
What would they know
of tainted tales,
obscured within the
mellifluous sound of splitting rain?
I am throned to a fallen sky,
drizzling thorns and splinters
upon bruised toes.
Remember, I love you,
through dreams and more,
stretching my fingers
to your silvery spheres.
Now your palette of romance
paints a blurred portrait
of hallowed misery;
dreams forgotten with time.
There’s no perfect
pigment to correct
my insomniac frame
but metaphors to lure me
back to a colorless
castle above satanic seas.
I’m dancing with demons;
as the pain you’ve fed me,
rushes through chained chambers.
Tonight, the storms may seem calm,
like forests awaiting for a trail
of redolent rainbows,
to flicker upon mourning meadows.
Tomorrow, when I slumber
six feet beneath breathing fiction,
will you rewrite cruel convictions,
that stole my purpose to live?
Maybe darkness sparkles upon
rich rivulets of rippling regrets,
so the cosmos would allow the moon
to rise and beam brighter than
the selfish sun.
Let this poem be the last
amulet to sorrowful sagas,
as I untangle your vines
suffocating my final breath,
this is the eternal demise—
I’m dying before your dead eyes.
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