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.
Copyright ©
Silent One
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