Title: Operatic Lunatic Tears of Rain and Fire
Author: Heather P.
Ruby cracked and blushed,
Painted up to something that is only faintly aware
of the world which is spinning,
spinning,
and feeling faint,
Until the floor subsides and is brushed up against the ceiling,
Pushed and shoved there,
By silver nails and silver hate,
like fire burning,
burning,
and ice cold hands,
that are yearning,
yearning.
Ivory picked out of the million joking licks,
to be the one and yet,
distant . . .
while it waits for its' cue,
to appease an audience
(such as this crowd of you)
It has its' ways of singing those melodic sighs and ways,
that make everything all right,
right?
Water funnels down leaving shining gems,
that can not be sold,
except by black-market flunkies trusted up,
and brought in for the kill.
Ribbon tied tongues clicking and clicking away the beat,
until it rests there,
done,
and weeping with diamond tears,
and a smile of fate,
ever more feeling this euphoric opera,
Like fire and rain,
the pain of singing high,
until the glass breaks and blood runs dry,
Plucking every useful thing out until all his fates are left to hang,
by a drying thread.
He,
He,
He,
or
Me?
a/n: I didn't say it would be the 'Operatic Sane Tears of Rain and Fire', now did I?
Author: Heather P.
Ruby cracked and blushed,
Painted up to something that is only faintly aware
of the world which is spinning,
spinning,
and feeling faint,
Until the floor subsides and is brushed up against the ceiling,
Pushed and shoved there,
By silver nails and silver hate,
like fire burning,
burning,
and ice cold hands,
that are yearning,
yearning.
Ivory picked out of the million joking licks,
to be the one and yet,
distant . . .
while it waits for its' cue,
to appease an audience
(such as this crowd of you)
It has its' ways of singing those melodic sighs and ways,
that make everything all right,
right?
Water funnels down leaving shining gems,
that can not be sold,
except by black-market flunkies trusted up,
and brought in for the kill.
Ribbon tied tongues clicking and clicking away the beat,
until it rests there,
done,
and weeping with diamond tears,
and a smile of fate,
ever more feeling this euphoric opera,
Like fire and rain,
the pain of singing high,
until the glass breaks and blood runs dry,
Plucking every useful thing out until all his fates are left to hang,
by a drying thread.
He,
He,
He,
or
Me?
a/n: I didn't say it would be the 'Operatic Sane Tears of Rain and Fire', now did I?