Fade into the black canvas of the room,
losing control that you never owned.
Under the lustful watch of wandering gazes,
beyond flicks of tongue that desire your flavour.
Swallow my gasps and maybe you’ll breathe fresh air in this strobing nightmare of primary neons.
Otherwise step aside and choke out of my sight.
Remember when we used to laugh?
It was all frolick and play,
not a worry under the blue sky.
Now I find myself trapped in an iron maiden of my own neglect.
Counting the seconds, filling the hours, in the dark of night.
Fearful of waking up to find my heart shriveled and old,
though my skin’s still taut and smooth.
Every word I utter falls dead to an empty auditorium,
nobody there to even throw much-welcomed scorn.
I scream with lips gently sealed, waves of grief crash uselessly against them.
No one shall know how deep the void scratches the frayed and tattered remnants of my soul.
A valley of desire runs long and untended between trembling thighs.
Carry my wishes to them with the breath of a unrepentant kiss,
then, maybe, I shall swallow your little gasps; pizzicato notes on our merry old symphony.
Oh, how this smirk -is it yours or mine?- flickers our lovers’ delight.
I’ll be sure to whisper your name, so please, spare a thought for my lonesome;
one day I’ll be sure to remember it.
Woke up to cymbals crashing divine,
I couldn’t take this harshness of mine.
What strange brew percolates our mourning,
we can’t even see ourselves hurting.
These eyes are numerous and staring into me,
can they even remember when they were free?
Give in, give in and know a requiem for your pain,
before you meet your Maker and confess yourself vain.
The forest’s edge stands astride,
giving way to thoughts of obsidian tint.
Fingers of plutonian ore
swallow beast and tree
in despondent sigh.
No comfort comes from the starless sky;
the Moon is veiled in mourning.
Critters of leaf and grass lay unmoving,
fear held in dilated irises.
Those who own the night thread e’er softly,
seeking sacrifice to appease that old god, Hunger,
upon an altar of rotting leaves and cold soil.
But hark, dawn’s sword splits the blackness,
scattering the shadows away.
Respite comes with the morn’s first light,
under twinkling radiance shapes take form.
A new day strikes for the forest old.
Somewhere, not far, a bird sings indifferent.
Count the years
by the seconds
that I behold
should I open
my eyes, when
they can’t look
back into yours?