Once upon a time I pushed you out of me to become my perfect love
I wrote and spun and performed for you and you put my pieces in glass domes.
And when the sun shone thru the glass of a thousand captured words, the population fled for fear of the queer colored lights.
They waited just beyond the ivy and roses, peek a booing around leafy corners longing to go back home.
Why have you forsaken us and emptied your words from the sky?
Their finger tips berried the wall of swaying verdant as they called out to me, to you Let us return and trump these fantastical prisms.
You were married to the glass. You disregarded their cries.
Spinning words stopped being an option and you cursed the sky why why why has the beauty stopped, why?
I need them. I must fill all vacancies.
This he told me with a white knuckled grip on me in atrophy of the scribe machine.
Since change is inevitable, I’m Queen of this dream (was he listening?). Even if you sought obliteration, I can no longer reach the sky.
Crucify your muse! Poor baby!
You knew I was an artist, bitch and ironically scream ‘tear down the wall!’
The spider webs spread from end to end. they were gone (had you burned down everything?).
Reincarnation. I beg of thee.
care enough for
the both of us. I
shouldn’t have to, this is
your family too.
I suppose everything is for the best
the trace is breached as it should
gravity dictates with a wooden pointer and dross plans to wreak havoc halt sweep
just to prove a point.
More and more
alliances are made by moribund leaves and to this end
the cycle goes on to chuckle
it will come round a wrong bend
again and again.
Because who is to say what is right
only those who wear crowns
appetency for interlaced thorns
just waiting for the intrigue
of conjured storms.
There is no “I” in the wind and
the gusty breaths make no oaths to
keep rain running sideways
no matter what trivia answer it
could deliver there is no winner here
just corners and traffic jams of
society run off
blossoming femininity before the
brain makes with the common sense
the refuse barely built and partially collapsed
or be gone.
Every next thought will be
or be not the one
that makes me pule
like uninterrupted patter
of salt-laced rain
I will fall thru the skies.
When it’s all’s
been all done
you still have to try
and revive the image machine
In other words
what you have
to do and
I don’t wreck-ognize my
own goodness anymore
And I used to.