It felt so long ago to walk a sandy short and call it a home in disguise,
so far away in faithful fear of change, dependency on lives lived far away.
How far from the forest did I drop pearls
as I waltzed in an emerald gown to friends and lovers and appreciators of open-minded flesh?
And now it feels obsolete in hunger and animosity,
in the pantries of the owners own providers of satisfying smiles and second chances.
Where I walk and walk alone,
where I'm lonely to drown in the false smiles of friends and liars, foe and hero.
My pearls have been colored black in permanent marker
drawn from the pockets of a phantom ruling,
of turning backs and stab wounds inside a weaker knife.
How strange to be unloved by the ones who make you feel at home
when home cries "You're too different so I choose to leave you behind and alone.
You're not welcome here." I stamp my feet and turn around,
two shades of black embrace with hesitation
of my emerald dress lined with the pearls I used to throw to those I used to know.
Follow the trail of inked pearls to the corner of the torture chamber,
where red cleans off the blackened jewel
to show the whitened color of my face as I lie alone, as I die alone.
My pearls can't save me now, my emerald dress will cover me inside my coffin's cell.
Pearls won't let me burn in Hell but to watch my funeral
read by the preachers and forgiveness-seekers crying in red cloth, forgetting what they hate the most.
But the love and the lonely live forever, and in years gone I will live a ghost
and as the friendship passes with the years, I'll adorn their graves with pearls and loving tears.