capsules on the tip of her tongue. tornadoes on the edge of her gaze. in the center of the chaos she is calm. fortified by the tinsel of the mania. as it focuses the light. exposing all the colors it hides from us.
the thick of her pillow heavy under her head. as the random wolves in her veins hunt the sheep inside her head. a crazy game of Cinderella. where the prince is dead. and the godmother is more drug than magic.
he's old now. she is too. or not young anymore. the difference vast. especially as she listens. searching for the silence that has abandoned her. staring. eyes all on the back of her head. back there. behind. that's where everything happens.
everything else is just candy houses and speculation. rapid atoms with nothing to ignite. her playground closes. sand in her eyes and the the creaking chains. of empty places.
she tears off her mask.
to find the muscle underneath. that there is no skin left on her face.
Friday
10/15/2010 12:24:00 AM
Sad Labels:
alcohol
,
introspect
,
philosophy
,
puzzles
| Life Poems |