August 24, 2011

Think, Don't Guess

Intellect webs, spun round your wrists,

as the acid bone formation seeps into crevices

of biological creation.

The restful dream haunts with the touch of rotten wood,

every night, an affliction to be felt.

She has the imprint of a mistress,

felt tips on the end of pens,

for safety. She's a hazard

to herself and no one else.

They stand like gawkers,

a geek at a fair, you path-

etic magnetist, the art of

living is not so intricately

followed.

So it's the last night of the exit,

where the curtain flies, and I

stand to watch applause; mute,

behind my back.

Like a hurricane torn into me,

as I lay sleeping, to peace.

To pieces.

And as much as I'll despise you,

there never was a more sadistic circle,

as the one loaned from a fallen saint.

Take heart to sight, the butter-

fly turns to dust. In the arms of the devil.

If I follow these reflections

these hands will break with tracing,

over scars and papercut cutting.

You'll find me a way out of here,

won't you? You'll change,

like all the rest.