Auric Obsidian - The Face Clean Behind the Gun
"Auric Obsidian - The Face Clean Behind the Gun"
You drew me into your new world,
the corridors of your mind
fitted me perfectly imperfect
into the portraits pegged onto your wall
an unsuspecting target
from the get-go
groomed on the run
brood mare, surrogate
I hung there like an old coat
you pretended to love
once long ago, well worn
while my life bled out
into the cracks
of your secret
hidden under the rugs,
coffin floors
each drop of my life in seconds
fed your hungry monster reasons,
the unaware purity of such auric,
cooked obsidian, before feeding, unnoticed
grace was not spoken
it was never spoken
nor acknowledged,
there were no blessings
required to satiate
the reasons why, and absolve
your hidden abnormal feelings
there were children waiting, in that underworld
there was a roiling romance
underneath your book jacket
I could feel your heart
beating beneath the life, the lack of it
it barked incessantly
like a sharp toothed whippit,
its monkey mind no Rodin
clung like an incubus to my back,
yet, the reptilian in me
had enough sense
to attack, so in that sense
I turned my back and walked away
after your selling of all that mattered
in the signing of that contract
your “save me”... well, on my time,
was swiftly packed away
the act of doing so, swaddled in affidavits,
I put what mattered most, first
front and centre, surely justice
would see the contract through complete
something worth everything in this life
is never ever delivered that easy - complex,
the doors like Bluebeard unravelled
and hidden in the cracks in floors
under carpets,
the touched children
were swept, torn bleeding
lives buried, hidden
the carnage you bore absolved,
as others knelt before
their alters of denial
like you were some born-again demon
you were swiftly and
graciously forgiven
and loved again
still,
the Other, dare I say,
I am -
that Other one,
shot son-of-a-b*tch bullets
the triggers exploding
in strange tornados
ripping up pages
like confetti over funeral plots
the red shoes firmly planted
like thorny red roses
pricking thumbs
that turned new pages
the crimson dripping
ink for the running writing
not once wasted in labyrinths
delphis wearing black crow mojo cloaks
the face clean
the hands ready
the motive quite pure
though clearly debated
still, that Other one stands firm
unmoved and unshaken
always in front of the lie
behind the smoking gun
finger ever ready on the trigger
some silver bullets
never work,
there are other dynamic
torturous methods
schools out
the student observes
the teachers says
this is the start of a new lesson
run rabbit run
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Michaela adds that she's only seen a true black aura once.
"Black is kind of like a void—like their soul is not present," she describes."
Copyright ©
Candide Diderot
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