Death comes sweetly
where midnight
dares not show its face, -
licking fears,
lapping up old sorrows
and prisms of faces
pinned like insects
under bell jars.
It lays you down
in soft, pale sheets,
pours sweet oil
over tired limbs
and bruised memories
and cuts right to the quick
like a hard won prize.
It leaves you lost,
stripped down to bare wounds,
blinking at ghosts
who catch your sore heart
and wear it on their lips
with the shadowed promise
to never forget...
There are flames where
his head should be -
forty pieces of silver
a dressing gown, a pipe
a poem left in the fireplace.
This man promised you a winter
so warm and bountiful
spring would be ashamed.
He called you by name -
not the one that father knew
shoved under his bible
But the one left behind
in the branches,
in the bucket of brambles,
and the columbines
buried at your feet.
Stone angels on the battlefield
surrender in the grass.
What did his face
even look like behind the curtain,
counting those coins
and loosening the damp earth
from your shoes?
Day 983 of my captivity
My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, the
The car crash in your head
testimony to knife flash
point blank gun shot
ticking like a time bomb
puts a hole in mother's head
and lets her breathe.
They pull you
out of the wreckage -
steel splinters
slivers of brain
jagged bruises
still breathing
legs twitching
like a milky chrysalis
pinned to a card,
chewing the reminders of childhood
smeared across walls
in bright red paint
and toys crushed
under foot like insects -
the black tips of angel wings,
fragments of tin whistles
dolls' heads
all collected with smiles
in a bag at the door
while you try and undo 30 years of lies
taped to your coat
with a kiss each m