Some ride coffins
Black and slick
Completely round
The best of linen interior
For when your inbound
Four feet laid under the ground.
Some swim in tears
Blue tinted, salty, and clear
Drowning their cheers
Pain always living in it
Public with their lament
Swollen eyes become slits.
Some hide from fears
Pressure stifling abilities
Alien to feelings of tranquility
Melting into the woodworks
Like lost tribes of gloom
Dead flowers which will never bloom.
Some are searchers
Seeking out the wretches
Desperately taking accolades
Like bones being tossed
To rabid slobbering dogs
Selfishly wanting their own applause.
Some are procreators
Breeders of hate
Tearing the wombs
Bleeders of hearts
Butchers of gentleness they filet
Lost souls for the ones who disobey.
Some take things farther
Openers of closed doors
Never sitting still
Builders strengthening others wills
Unselfishly bringing new beginnings
To those of the nonliving.
Some we never knew
Like aimless doves flying
Wrinkling moments in time
With upside down smiles
Painted onto canvasses
Of blank faces…
I sit on this floor
and look at this same
six-sided room,
a die that I continue
in a trundle manner
for fortune's fate.
I search for a turnkey,
which I will not encounter,
for I am not of compliant natures.
Trapped and scared from
thoughts of turning
into procreators
that held the girl back.
Wings of tattered emotion
seem to be embedded in her back
are to show signs
of false hopes.
She calls herself Faith,
though she hasn't one.
To say in reply to what
her name means,
she is noone so
there is lost hope in herself.
You see her heart worn
a sleeve covering her
conflicts with emotion
on her forearm.
Soft spoken, her voice,
reassuring that
the timidity in her eyes
isn't there
when first glance
is gazed upon to be known.
Hair of silk,
long and black, body pale,
eyes bold,
all features of
the one who used to be
loved for who she was.
But as the snow falls
like flower petals,
falling elegantly off its stem,
so does the girl
falling for him.
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