painted midnight

your face carved like a bruised moon
and the quivering fog of your voice,
huddled in the curtains of a glass-beaten room.

I never understood your fascination with darkness strewn
like gasoline streams spilled across the sky and choked stars,
your face carved like a bruised moon.

until I learned how your egg-shell soul was almost torn from its womb
but with feeble fingers, you clung to survival, an unborn prayer
huddled in the curtains of a glass-beaten room.

now your chalk, and ashen secrets spell out that grating tune
of loathing--the cacophony of despair--as you cling to untuned keys,
your face carved like a bruised moon.

still the untold memory has scrawled your life, a script of gloom,
sown by the alley's wrenching split of legs wide-open, your fear is
huddled in the curtains of a glass-beaten room.

and wishing I could bring you out of this half-strangled cocoon,
I'd understand if you wanted to remain near the dullest edges of the tomb:
your face carved like a bruised moon,
huddled in the curtains of a glass-beaten room.

a/n: I never knew.