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Untitled [10/21/09]
This sick skin is
withered and cold.
These ribbons of
foreign colors that peel
from the depths
of my soul:
Twist and contort
into shapeless beings
that worship
and dance around
the fire in your eyes.
I see through
your clever disguise.
But do not despair
my love;
For your fingers are
woven in mine.
Sew you to my side
so this ache
and heavy silence
taking over my head subsides
if only for a fraction of time.
Time!
Time has no meaning
when you're dead inside.
Desperate to hide
my cold cheeks
from the smiling sun
threatening me from
a happy sky.
...So I turn and run.
Run!
Run to the edge
of the earth.
These hollow winds
collide with the
hollow heart
barely beating
in a defeated shell.
I am a but a living corpse
stumbling through
its self-created hell.
