Darkness
Pale lips part, titillating the words,
trumped by those assassin eyes that
form the terms of squelched passions,
pursuit facilitated not by a slick,
scrimshaw knife, but by the hands that
once caressed her body with shameful
indulgences.
He cups her neck, tightening the grip,
forgetting how to forgive the abortion
she’s just had; pain exorcises the demons
of regret, like a song that weeps for the
past, happy it’s remained there. His face is
chiseled ice, the wounds of his soul,
beyond the scope of understanding.
One vacant smile, mute to the invitation
it contains, mute, to his spotlight of misery.
He leaves her once embrace in the raw
mechanics of the act, abstract to the concept
of time. His self-proposal is this: to not waste
any more time, to reestablish the vigor of
his drive within the sanity of proceeding,
to feel, the subliminal and unspoken ease
of pleasant diversion. He writes stories
in a chorus of pleasure and longing. He
retracts the gesture of his sin already
committed with personal and fragile depth,
through a stack of other women, most,
already spoken for.
He thinks he has fooled everyone, and that
the realism within his world of fantasy, has
purpose. He dances with trees part time, hacking
bark just to watch them fall, and his grunts
echo in the wind as mighty maples drop their
leaves on the road among broken trunks and
branches. He notes the angles of their collapse,
the graceless limbs as they begin to fail. His touch
is treason and comes disguised within the wake
of houses waiting to be built and award winning
books, written in an attempt to wipe out identity. He
says he’s changed, that he’s not the man he used to be,
but I’m not easily seduced by words. I know he watches
his eyes in the mirror and adjusts his heart, to their
darkness.
Frailty’s Baggage~Channeling Jim Morrison
There is no grief in language
when you’re stricken, cast down,
changes silhouette past silence
pausing sullenly through the
echoing corridors of my mind.
Torn posters without poetry,
without song, without love,
face hopes and fears in the mirrors
of pain; and his sex hangs unhidden,
and his metal heart sweeps though
abandoned philosophy as the curtain
closes on the sensual train.
I want repetition of song, recollection
in truth; to create from the oblique,
denying the erotic, an obeisance to
the power it steals from those of us
who can’t find anything to live for,
but everything to die for. Cast not your
demons of treachery, tears, anger, and
betrayal on me; the elevator is rising.
There’s fumbled endorphins offered
up as a cocktail with some really good
whiskey and meth cocaine. Smell the
lily and the rose,
let the bricks soften to deep greens,
let God speak austere though vacant
fields while you grow stillborn
through drugs so sweet. Let the
suicide take on it’s own craft and magic,
as day light comes and a stranger’s face
brings forgiveness; blooming, blooming,
in the scent of your sweet blood. Your rib
is gone, son of Adam and He shall
have her heart; lowered lids expand as
they rise in total annihilation. Tick tock.
White roses growing in the corner,
lilies dead on the sidewalk.
Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet. (within the horror writing community).
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