A Silence Blisters In Utero
Contributed by
savingmarion
on
Saturday, 25th December 2004 @ 08:08:35 PM in AEST
Topic:
oops
|
In the violence of a dreamless sleep,
An angel’s cold courses through my veins.
A cold with such depth,
That the blood flees from each appendage.
A cold that screams, I alone bleed yellow.
A cold that reminds me,
That I can make anything beautiful,
Just a little bit less noticeable.
By the way,
I think you left some of your blood,
Under my pillow last night.
Such that, the stains that shade my pillowcase,
Hold vengeance in barrels of prose.
A silence blisters in utero,
From potential to potent-
From latent to lethal.
And it is I, who lives like he is dying.
Even in heart drop and sequence,
It is I, who breathes in time,
With opulence that sings like a trigger.
Rapacity cries with the wealth of a glutton,
While autumn waits hopelessly,
For you to become like the Flagellants.
When I think about you,
I turn the deepest shade of black.
You could say,
That I blush in turn with my pillowcase.
It, alone, understands my lust.
After having tasted apostasy,
It, too, looks to rape itself sideways,
In hopes to regain your sympathy.
Your fall lacked all grace and a certain timing.
But it still captured beauty for the sake of rhyming.
I plundered your matches and dropped kerosene.
I lit up my body. It ravaged my spleen.
The needle that carried my heroine far,
Blows kisses to you and your falling star.
The match that brought this reason to life,
Wishes for you a good night’s strife.
Phalanges that grope the night for a neck,
Hold you at an incalculable debt.
“Anathema sit,” held low in cracked tongues,
Will surface when I feel the breath from your lungs.
The shadow’s been lifted from the right eye that wanders,
But a cloud hangs over this murder I ponder.
Maybe, again, you will be set free,
From the wrongs you’ve uttered and the noose from the tree.
Maybe, once again, no one will know,
Of the cries you let fly that bade you go.
Even though you try so hard to forget,
This sore that festers, I cannot let.
Maybe this rage that I write of,
Comes only for you, whom, I guess, I still love.
Copyright ©
savingmarion
... [
2004-12-25 20:08:35] (Date/Time posted on
site)
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