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Literature Text
I dance through echoing rooms in my mind,
Up the creaking stairs that lead to No-Place
And play in the memories left behind
When Reality chose to show her face.
So clear now, every neuron's trail sparking
To paint the portraits clinging to the walls.
So obvious the shattered glass marking
Remains of naïve dreams that strew these halls.
And now through the gardens of withered rue,
And imagined fountains flowing with thought
To deny the need for the Darkness who
Helps conceal the asylum gates I wrought.
Literature
Catacombs
This is torture, Pandora's box, a forever maze.
Praise the days your privileged to inhale sun rays.
For in this place,
the shelter of mummified bones,
unrest the moans of those,
In the Catacombs.
Exteriors, ghostly, vivid and crude.
Spirits shackled by mortal dues,
refuse to sleep in darkened tomb.
Awaiting their horizons, suns of mourning.
While tears and rivers, overflow with pouring.
Bound to their restless beds,
For in the Catacombs
Even the dead, haunt the dead
Mossy, overgrown Catacomb with ancient rocks.
The deep ones climb, these withering locks.
Within these halls, blows a breathless tone.
The soul count here, ten times t
Literature
Broken
I lay down my heart,
I begin to pray,
Wherein does,
My heartstring lay.
The reds now grey,
On this unholy day,
Your hands are stained,
My heart is framed.
Encased in glass,
Lost all that lasts
Buried below,
Where dead men groan.
A deep dark home,
Of skin and bone,
A deep dark hole,
For a broken soul.
Mend the heart,
If you dare try,
But tear it apart,
Then be prepared to die.
Broken,
Crushed,
Beaten,
Shattered.
In the end,
It doesn't matter.
Literature
burning bodies
and we yearned for something deeper tangled between bed sheets
but our palms were always split open, spilling malice.
our bodies, always in dire separation
even in scalding proximity.
je dis beaucoup des mensonges.
i tell a lot of lies.
the following:
we curled ourselves alongside icicles to bury the flames.
my waist still feels like a graveyard.
even after all the times you tasted my bone marrow,
you still have the nerve to say i'm not bitter.
our mansion is burning from the inside out
and we force-feed the desire with
prolonged gestures and held-breaths.
our combined scar tissue lies in a heap on the floor of our shrine
and the sk
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Comments3
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This is mind-boggling, but in a good way. Seriously clever. 