“The Haunting”

A darkness fleeting.

Your own light bulb,

crushed under your own two feet.

A smear of blue.

A drop of red,

on your stomach,

the side of his bed.

A danger,

a relic.

“Convince me,”

he says.

You can still see his voice,

a shadow,

dripping in barbed desire.

Something tangled up,

between your thighs,

around your pretty neck.

It was only the sheets.

 

 

“Divide and Conquer”

Cross-legged in your basement,

arms outstretched.

You didn’t know I was there.

I heard,

your footsteps

puttering above my head.

Can you hear me?

Breathing,

on your neck,

but I wasn’t the one who put it there.

No,

I was in your attic,

lounging on some cans of blue spray paint.

I heard you singing,

in the shower beneath my feet.

I froze,

because she was there too.

Oh,

that just wouldn’t do.

I remembered the carving knife,

on your cutting board.

You should of seen my face just then,

lit up and glowing.

“Noble Absurdity”

Glass floors and iron teeth,

people made of stationary.

This is what he dreams about.

A cat that’s lost his grin,

an eagle with no eyes,

a throne divine,

and a map that never lies.

What does it mean?

Golden skeletons with white crowns,

laughing upon stallions made of blood.

A prince with one arm,

standing amidst the chaos,

clutching a black ribbon.

He’s full of despair,

alone in this fight.

But it’s just a dream,

right?

“Far from Meeting”

She peers through lenses to see the world,

she sees it through fire.

She believes in solutions and concentrations,

an owl amongst pigeons.

But she is kind.

She doesn’t believe in much,

only what she sees through the smoke.

Her vision is hazy, but she is keen.

She puts her faith in the smeared glass in front of her,

a broken pocket watch without a chain.

She renounced god a long time ago,

breathing through her nose and eating the fire that licked her face.

They collided once,

the flames and the monocle.  

They destroyed each other.

“Crooked Realm”

Under the water,

where sins go for slaughter,

it rains in reverse.

Machines spit out dreams,

stitched up at their spilling seams,

unsure about their new legs.

Wolves cry instead of howl,

constantly on the prowl,

looking for the source of their bleeding.

Fae wander the hills,

with hair as black as a raven’s quills,

struck blind by their own beauty.

A tower unmoving,

skin grooving,

collapsing in on itself.

All the kings horses and all the kings men,

weeping in a golden glen,

for they lost their king.