On A Sun Tanned Night

Dropping fates, cracking lives, cleaved minds, the blood keeps reverting to my eyes from my heart;

Every length of the seething pleasure of your thoughts searing through my vision ends at every breath I take;

They were my breath, and they now stop, choking, croaking, tightening the noose, a sight of you my reds ooze;

Limping across a meadow of a surrealist’s corpse, leaping bounds and fathoms over your entailing thoughts;

The blood covered gregarious in frivolity, are my dreams of leisure, an escape to my caninity;

No redemption, no salvation, just an inherent trepidation, a trepidation of sorts, on my shadow you gave myriad blisters and warts;

Etching with a sword across the rosy bosom, within me now a thousand hatred hold ransom;

Tearing the skin, shredding the flesh, eating on my core, your every tooth afresh;

With every wound, with every scab, with every delectable scald, I pick them, I bite them, licking the pain appalled;

Cry not when I stab you on your temple, cry not when my blade bares your rouge within;

Cause I shall pull the threads with eternity to spare, cause I shall marry your peace to my snare;

My dark, my noir, my solace of hate, shall sever, shall never benefactor thy fate…………..

 

My Mother

From the sores of birth, to fulfillment so dearth;

From writhing to raise, to the unwarranted praise;

From the amour so terse, to the reverberating curse;

From the cleaved nascent cord, a taint of thy lord;

Of all the prophecies of the Oracle, hopelessness to the brim of your crucible;

Passing every moment in the vain of devoid, the imperative of my fate to avoid;

Nigh is the time for the inevitable fracture, with belief and wishes to nurture;

But a moment to steal for the sense, for a rainy prelude to the severance;

Not deserving the droplets of the heart, not demanding the couplets of thy art;

Devouring on your crimson serous, prodigy to prodigal is less amorous;

Parting to departing an underlying cleavage, cascade for the scars of the lineage;

From the bruises of the intangible castigation, bleeding from the false lamination;

To all the inanimate acrimony, to the scrupulous soul it were all a ceremony;

Below the lament of all the smother, lies the halo called My Mother.....