6 hours and

These phantoms that
plague your sleep,

A manifestation of
deeper fantasies

held within, dreamt quietly,
With fingers crossed

and eyes shut tight,
Drawing darkness near;

Your alabaster frame,
A home for such spells

as might be imagined
by these ill parishioners.


Had you the will,
You'd possess fame,

fortune, literature issued
with your likeness

plastered, touched-up,
And found to be vogue,

But your twisted mind
escapes the traps of society

like a missed meal, or a
beaten dog, slinking, only

to feign humility,
When a vicious strike

would cost you a home,
Or at least a bone, treasured.


Revel then, sink slowly
into derisive suicide

by amnesia, a monster
tied to past loves,

A prisoner of desire
and travesty alike,

A black hole in a
tight cocktail dress

that draws me,
A blinded sparrow,

Toward it's beautiful
and broken event horizon.

The End

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