Archive for April 23, 2016

air caresses the flute,

leaving not a trace
of itself.

a gentle melody,
lilting notes,
echo invisibly,

by passionate breath mingling with air,

unseen … … …

at times lost in the cauldron, at times raging against the fates, these moments we weave, we arrive and we leave, hearts splattered across the dining room floor, showing dignity the door, these moments of madness, sheer lunacy at its core, painted on smiles and words a festering sore,

left to moult, in the sun,
never to come,
between us and our hollow fun … … …

incoherent (like life) …

slipping through empty breaths sliding down on bent knees scraping raw flesh against cold skin hollow kisses falling to the desolate floor swept up discarded trashed recycled churned out strewn littered alongside barricaded hearts yearning to feel again to touch to taste to ache to be human once more to know to believe that one can feel that one can hear and see and dig beneath the veneer of sophisticated tinny smiles flinging around casually barbed words meant to jab gnawing at the core of all that makes us human the sting of tears the taste of salt the dripping red bleeding off roses in quaint gardens pruned to perfection yet dead inside numbed into comfortable complacency as the world turns threatening the linearity of time that prays for returns while this heart this soul this being within the cauldron of palpable loss simply burns

quislings … … …

collaborate with the forces of reaction,
jumping on the bandwagon of dissatisfaction,

saying this, saying that, uttering platitudes best left unsaid,

the quisling squirms, ingratiates, worms his way through the political plains,

seeking power, status, the bounty of power and the intoxication of wielding its reins, he says this and that and heaven knows what,

while camouflaging his own decrepit moral rot … … …

%d bloggers like this: