life is not measured in years or in miles
but rather, in texture and flavor
celebrating the departure of a digit
and the arrival of a new
and with it, an opportunity
for redemption
your pleas ring like chimes
but play a false alarm
i have swam the ocean of twilight wine
my soft refusal of the tainted fruits
and surrender to the festival men
on a druken stage they misspell their names
but speak of holidays and dread conclusions
the pen is mightier than the sword
but the ink is washed away
by the saliva of the dogs of lust
they peer through the bushes and
desire pulling the petals from each rose
on the Moonlight Mile
you theif and you lover
you see not my ghosts
only my mask
simplicity is swallowed by the shallow
sincere injections, they do not pierce
your metallic heart
i am not your lover
i am your victim
no longer will we be shackled
by the poison tongues
the Revolution will commence, the reprisal
a return to the age of substance and emotion
the Tye Dye Princess conquers the material with sentimental
her tributes to be hung on the chamber wall
my incohernece is my beauty
misunderstood, i labored long, composing your masterpiece
and carving it upon my flesh
sleepless nights i gaze at
your portrait of abscence as it hangs
atop my mantle
from the whimsical dreams of your jeweled embrace
i conjure up a mockery of infinity and fate
my poetry is hopeless, for i own the keys
but not the map to your heart |
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