Self-idolatry meets
self-loathing.
My wistful eyes stunned
frozen,
As I stare at the vaulted
ceiling.
I recall the seagulls
squealing,
On the brisk Lake Superior
shore,
In simpler days of mild
malaise,
Away from clubs and dance
floors,
We grew tired of those
summer days.
Sitting with my old friend,
silence,
I recall her pleasant
countenance,
Between reality and
imagination,
In the woe of a fading
stimulation.
Tender words drip from
bloody lips,
Down the steps and into an
abyss,
That swallows memories of
bliss,
Then coaxes me in a writhing
grip.
Flick of a wrist and kiss of
a knife.
Stubborn hands commit the
deeds.
Cowering with trembling
knees.
Guiltless eyes close the
windows,
To a chamber of rotting
faces,
Tortured by a harrowing
heart.
This body is a haunted
place,
A fractured work of art.
