Wednesday, February 1, 2012


Inch by inch, the mind gives way
To the sickness of the stroll.
The pupils widen – their lust stoked
By the stillborn moon:
Crescent-shaped, crevasse-laden
Pockmarked proll!
There is nothing beautiful about it –
The red-soaked sheet, the sniveling tears…
The hips widen – their trust slaked;
Emotions grind to a crest;
The mind wanes,
Waxing to the touch of the wanton,
Unfeeling stranger –
Desirous dismembered droll.
The joke’s on you,
The pity’s mine,
The tears – of them who’ve still remembered to cry!

It does not matter
That the stars twinkle as they always have –
They know not what you do:
This is empty, devoid of dust,
As only the cruelest truest coldest steel can be.
In an instant, you are marooned
For all eternity.

The fingers clutch at the bedsheet torn –
The nails rip away in desperation
At the last shroud of shame;
The mind ceases to breathe,
As it must
When iron turns to rust.
The redness of the blood mixes now
With the redness of the weal…
There is nothing poetic about it:
The limbs distraught, the faded petals
Slip into oblivion,
As the door closes one final time.

The moon is hidden now
Behind clouds rushing in too late.
Now that light has petered out,
It is serene again.
Close your eyes, maiden,
And wash away his shame.

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