The Dark-Shelled Flowers of Thought
I’m tired.
And I don’t care what color the sky is.
It doesn’t remember my mind.
Or the shape it left when it passed.
Too bad really.
The corners are jewels.
Dripping dew —
like spiders —
from its pain.
And the music.
Too hollow to be real.
Echoes endlessly
through scarred tunnels.
Praying.
For anything but sleep
Dancing on Razor Blades
I prick my finger.
And spill your name.
So beautiful.
It belongs.
In a scream.
But my lips are tired.
Of following the drain.
The curve of the letters
is too steep.
I stumble.
And fall.
Into and beyond
the blackening wall.
Of forget.
Hateful and Alone
I look in the mirror.
And I see two me’s.
Both different.
And afraid of the same.
So I choose
to see the spaces
reflected in between.
They are empty.
And safe.
Shining as a face.
Unforgotten.
That is what I long to be.
The blankness
that is beauty.
So perfect
ly still.
An etching of everything.
Timeless.
And, of course, understood.
