I open the windows,
Welcome the agonizing cold breeze—
It blows
Within my soul.
It casts spells on my mind,
Shows beauty futile to my eyes
For I have gone blind.
I refuse colors,
Poisoning the lavender hyacinths
On life’s barren land.
I snatch a dagger
And stab your pathetic helping hand.
My fingers twist and break,
Refusing to write
For my sanity’s sake.
With my bruised palms I carve
Each verse, a prayer for solace.
A saint worshiping words.
My mind: a labyrinth.
I carve perplex pathways
Leading to chthonic depths;
A vexed abyss
Of an insufferable mind.
I weave mosaics in lunacy.
Seduced by insomnia’s ecstasy.
Starving in famine,
I bathe in sanguine.
Fragments don’t constitute poems,
Call not a heart a home,
Turn yours to stone.
Flesh, Tears, Bone.
Call not a heart your home
You will turn to—
Flesh, Tears, Bone.
Turn to; my beloved graveyard,
Tombstone.
Cut warmth,
Weren’t you born in fire?
Plead paradise,
A demise to unearthly desire.
A tantalizing glimpse.
Walk among shadows—
The light will burn your skin,
Your crimson-stained white linen.
Specter’s entwine my soul.
I step deeper into the void,
Fiat tenebris: dim the light,
Suffocate brains pleading paranoid.
Dismal.
I step deeper into the void—
I fall, paranoid.
