the air of the chimney – whips
mocking tales of fairy endings
creations of the devil
tempting us all
to one more day
of wishes, suffering, happiness
The kind of heat that turns you to dust
leaving souls weighted in bones
picked a part by crows
that heat is still better than a reality
wading through the living dead
watching as the radiant fled
On my path, it rains,
my dry skin moisturized.
For the first time, I stop,
observing the bend up the way,
inhaling the fragrant orchard bloom
I try to understand, how I never noticed
the bloom of thistles, water lilies,
dog rose, blue bells, dragonflies.
My steps are overwhelmed
by the need not to move, conflicted
by what lies up ahead, predators in between
lie each side in wait, to take:
my limbs, my children, my life.
I shake with the weight of my little chest
that holds within it a golden soul,
ready to shine.
Tied at the kitchen sink,
screams captured, by the ceiling –
photos in the sitting room tell a different story.
all that was left was a girl in a box,
buried alive, if only she’d been oxygenated.
Once a sweet peach,
everyone peered in, murmuring:
‘what happened to her?’
Wails of what they might say –
if only there was one more day,
the sun might rise – she might see it differently,
But the horrific truth:
he would not find happiness,
not until he had her in a box.
Like a ghost at my bed three a.m.
haunts the spot my heart used to be.
In a room that echoes vacant night time
chats, I think of eternity in purgatory.
Locked in a rhymeless room with no view,
no paintings, no sheets, no floor, no air –
only a roof and four walls, screaming perpetually –
no one can hear
I suffer through a time without an end.