Adolescence

 (This is for the mislead youth finding a way through…) 

A statue in a four walled prison,
    Entrapment screaming in rage….
Like the moonlight bleeds in its crimson,
    A wounded pigeon without a cage…

The wind and its carnage,
    A wall that chants rebellion…
The lamp with a taunting hemorrhage,
      A loser with a medallion ….

The gift with a ribbon of curses,
    A feather to write a book…
The wooden box with no roses,
    A string that’s got no hook…

The firefly in a jar of wax,
    A candle with a wooden wick…
The knight with a marble axe,
    A flower on a porcelain stick…

The paint on a broken glass,
    A ring on a swollen thumb…
Coffee inside a woolen flask,
    A memory sunk in rum…

The flight to a landing plane,
A chime on a dead telephone…
The spite in a laughing face,
    An eyelid carved in limestone…

The nicotine in a stubbed cigarette,
    A weed in a tulip’s garden…
The tint in a street light silhouette,
    A sear in a winter jargon…

She

She’s a lily that blooms a year,
She’s madness in a woolen sear…
She’s all I am, all I can hear,
She’s my precious tear…

She’s breath and all that breathes,
She’s a raindrop in an angel’s teeth…
She’s life and all that heeds…
She’s her, and she’s all I need…

She’s a flower as I’m the bee,
She’s the root and I’m the seed…
Born is a slapping of love pure and deep,
She’s love, She ‘s my love indeed….

A Porcelain Mind

A needle stitches a mind of cobwebs,
A nerve reaps for penance…
Paranoia lies naked on a carpet,
A tear cries out for its conscience…

A painter weeps in a painting that’s faded,
No burning lands are sold for ransom…
A pigeon flies with a bullet in its apron,
A blind man writes his last rites ‘neath an unfilled lantern…

His head rests on a frigid pillow,
Asleep was a sleeping nightingale…
Forgone was her lucid willow,
Her wings clipped to a winter hail…

The witness spoke for none,
His heart kept for valiance…
A note to a heart that sunk,
He wrote his last note to silence…

“What gives for this world’s not mine,
Am I patience or a metaphor that rhymes?
What’s time when there are no tides?
What’s emptiness when I just can’t cry?

What gives for this world’s not mine,
Is war all that’s left in time?
Why’s blood sold for a rich man’s dime?
What’s left of a stray with no pride?

Here’s a jury that bribes its victim for slaughter,
Wealthy hands rock agony’s adopted children…
Here’s a farmer who recites his rites to a daughter,
Whilst a merchant sells her soul for his coffin…

Here’s a land that rock dead cradles,
Here’s a land that buries them still…
What gives this world in shambles?
What’s life for me to forgive?”

Damien’s Confessions III – A Tragedy

Asleep, in an epileptic dream,
He weeps on a bed called guilt…
Her picture afloat a placid stream,
Her face he kissed with a woven quilt…

The drowning seed sprouts a tree,
A blind man cries to his hymn alone…
Leaves cry as the winter flees,
Her moon sits on a frozen throne…

His tears drown the tulips beside,
A pigeon cries for slaughter…
Her eyes, a woolen coffin to reside,
Her scent like wine and water…

Her hair drowns the tainted blossom,
A butterfly flies with wings on fire…
Roses sped as the tulips rotten,
Her breath is his lonesome desire…

Damien’s Confessions II - To thyself

She’s a carved souvenir,
An idle breath to adore her scent….
A frigid woolen sheer,
She’s tragedy with no bitter end…

An illustration with no meaning,
A colour without a shade…
Life’s immerged seeding,
She’s a book that wrote a page…

She’s movements in friction,
The vowel in that maze….
She’s a novel with a fiction,
A book without a page…

She’s dictionary in a spelling,
A synonym in an empty page…
What gives this heart a swelling?
Love’s just a pending wage…

Damien’s confessions – A letter to Iris

Why do these eyes sink?
When you sing to the sky…
Why do you yearn for wings?
When I say I cannot fly…

Why does your hair sway?
When the wind sings a rhyme…
Why does this heart pain?
When tulips just don’t cry…

Why does your lip speak riddles?
When I wish to name them mine…
Why does your breath feel brittle?
Have I drenched myself in wine…?

Why do your arms not move?
Are mine too cold to give…
What have I to prove?
You’re all I have to live…

Oh! The queen of my throne!
I’ve roses but you bring me thorns…
Told you tulips don’t groan…
But your garden bloom spawns…

The Awaited Agony: Beauty and the Beast - A Gothic Etymology -Part IV – The Feast for Beauty

A palm bled to an attained calm,
For a nail thus painted blue…
What’s a till in a shivered palm?
His beauty in black perfume…

Beast:
Would thy breath be a demean vigil,
Why could thou not be hysteria in a gown?
Would thy hair sow this heart a till,
I’ve got tulips, but you wear a frown…

Beauty:
What demean vigil could this breath arouse,
I’m the queen to be named a crown…
No hair of mine shall slit your furrows,
No tears of yours would name a swan…!