Icicle Irritation.

The rose sitar strings were

intentionally propped up against

the sky crust's under-inflated,

sugary ribs by

some undying, almost chemical

force.

And all the while

cinnamon sweet incandescence

swept out from a flimsy floor-mat

and swirled through my

irritated irises;

so furious, so

gentle.

The sensation clasped my lips

in a warm smile and sent prayer

through my delicate forearms and

fingers.

---

Oh, its not been long

and now scarlet-webs drip

along the floorboards as I crawl by.

And through the muddy, painted window,

the carnage moon smiles sweetly and

savorily slices a sliver of my life-force and feeds

it to the stars.

---

All the glitter portrayed in the utter

gleam and grin of the heavens turned

into nothing more than a curdled

sense of "never" replaying its gutless

pattern all over the cluttered wrists

of a helpless young woman.

And every life scrolled across

the midnight shuffle of destinies

has been deceived and forgotten.

Now, they nap as fractured heathens

with only icicles for companionship

throughout these

cloudless strings of breathless

winter days.