They burn behind clouded optics
hiding from the sights outside,
and they lurk in bloody tissues
as if the sinews that grew
could glue them back together.
They burn in deep condensed sheets
a force of breathlessness
driven to uncover what it feels like
to touch sweet air.
They burn behind the unseen bars
unable to roll to freedom
lost to the world absent of allure
yet longed for still the same,
for that place
where tears must not fall.
I cry
because the world no longer has a place
for my two-faced shadow.
I cry
because despair roots deep in
bleeding indigo hearts.
I cry
because mouths keep moving
words keep spilling
yet I remain a statue.
I cry
because normality cannot be expressed
by the unseen girl
with tracks of trailing tears
flooding over cheeks
invisible in daylight.
I cry
because they follow everywhere
plump,
steaming,
expanding,
ready to fill a hollow stomach
with bloated fat,
and a hollow mind
with dark thoughts.
I cry
because my mind is shriveled and compressed
a dead flower pressed between pages –
an imprint of what used to be beautiful.
I cry
because I have nothing left to do
but drown in my tears.
Abstract red lines of seething
A pattern of my own creation
Thick rage blossoming across stitched mind
as words settle at stomach pits.
Thinking you understand
Help twisted beyond meaning
Left alone is desolation.
A flourished war cry
Ringing out alone
Knowing nothing
Laughter when gone.
A sight of impenetrable reflections
Distorted from one.
Tear filled pools
Leaking from corners
Of shut eyes.
Click. Click. Click.
The fingers blurred together. Dancing with the black and white, pressing them down deeper into the dark holes where they belonged. Deep burgundy laced up hands, a reminder of the previous days. Or months. Or years. Time was lost upon the soul who sat, back straight as a pole, arms splayed out in front. From the eyes the tears spilled, splashing out a beat that wove between the clicks. A symphony of sorrow, lost to the ears of the others. Rolling down cheeks a pallid rose, slipping in streams across a neck and disappearing into a muted shirt. Grey eyes, grey hair, grey skin. A grey person with grey fingers tapping on black keys. Achromatic figure of overflowing diction, lacerated by the beams of aspiration, pieces sent scattering beneath dusty couches and closed doors – away from the clicking monotone which filled the room to bursting. It kept coming, till every echo seemed to bounce off the next, a rising cacophony born from only fingers as words formed on a white page on a reflective screen. When the clicking finally stopped, the sound kept going. Continuous in a burning mind, alive with the touch of power from writing, and smoking from the acid darkness that had rolled forth. But it was too late, for the tears had filled up the small room before the water could drain beneath the crack under the door, and so the soul sat. Hands splayed out in front, hair an ebbing pattern lifted by the current expelled by the dying breath. Still all so grey – except for the words. They seemed to tibulate and pulse, capering in freedom as they glowed in brilliant hues, expelled from the lifeless body. And so they froliced to the music, still resounding off soggy walls, and called to the next willing victim.
Click. Click. Click.
Oh, the black rose does grow,
beneath dead skies,
between deserted lands,
and above the thumping heart.
Oh, the black rose does grow,
where white phantoms,
walk windowed halls,
as dark cloaks sent flying
slip by disintegrating sanity.
The eluding wind
It grows,
It falls,
It dies.
Clouds condensing
thick walls to shade
the eyes from above from watching.
And as all is obscured by weighty fog
The tumbling rain,
It grows,
It falls,
It dies.
Oh, the black rose does grow,
Thorns piercing weakened hearts.
Blood droplet drawn,
It grows,
It falls,
It dies.
Oh, the black rose does grow,
It creeps around edges of souls,
Points stained from countless piercings.
Squeezing through stitched fragments
it blooms in eternal misery.
Time drones on,
It grows,
It falls,
It dies.
Oh, the black rose does grow,
Until it’s time for picking.
When clocks have run out of numbers
and the sun has nowhere to set.
Then all there’s left
is the blood on my wrist
the blood on my knife
the blood on my heart
and the black rose in my mind.
It grows,
It falls,
and I die.
Scrambled pigmentation,
Puzzle pieces saturated by
dull undertones.
Lost from their proper sets
they try to fit but do not match.
Sweeping chromaticism dancing before opened eyes,
Blurred edges, a drunken haze,
muddy images, elongating tendrils stretching between
as they separate.
Dampened with moldy spores,
an occasional rotational droplet declines
a lone shape to die in solitude.
If only I could see it’s death
to mourn what never was,
but I can’t see
for I’m blinded by my tears.
Just Another Impurity 