Sunday, February 24, 2013

The Ruins of Open Wounds




Her eyes were both wide and meek
The sides, verbose yet incomplete

There’s a siren by my chest
Whispering the sweetest sounds—
Caressing skin writhed in some past-lived ecstasy

Painted rainbows twist and swirl,
From peaks fervent bright,
To tracts of clay buried miles
Neath where seas once stirred it’s might

But still I couldn’t speak
For A mountain I’d become,

Crumbling—at first came down the minaret,
Wobbling spires traipsing the hymnals ever worn

The head, the heart, the arms
Deride brutalities unearned—persist until
Obstructed visions collided forth upon each sect of fast fulfilled,

All that lives is all that’s died
Beneath the trellis moon
Commingling amongst a fragrant sky

The last steps of this laundered dance
Elucidate each moment that led to this,
A parade of never standing—
Amassed in shards of slivered signs

Scars of vitriol’s past,
Unleash hollowed warbling’s unto
The clouded veils preceding the hours
Prior to the separation of world’s imbued

At the foothold of echoic reenactment,
A pawn in princely attire steps,
Upon the golden throne—unnoticed,

Until all that’s left is a replica
Of some other’s would-be tomb—
A masquerade proven unresolved
In this obligatory palace that remains in ruins

2 comments:

  1. in the midst of your poem i found a poem...

    All that lives is all that’s died
    Beneath the trellis moon
    Commingling amongst a fragrant sky

    it jumped out at me...and then the irony hit as well...it is ABC...lol..very cool...dont know if you did that on purpose but its a cool touch...

    ReplyDelete
  2. Those scars sure can fester some days as they come into our gaze and are always there reminding of past events at our lair.

    ReplyDelete