Healing rivers shot through with ghostly rays of dead sunlight
Like the scars mapping dream-catchers across my arms, the
Phantom remains of a pulsing latticework, as molten crimson as
The feelings that once rested in the hollows of my heart.
Spirits of chaos, they've had their wings clipped back to the blue-white
Branches of bone; my broken nails and raw skin ache for you, the
Crucifixion scars still hurt on winter days, empty in their immortal pain,
A morphine haze, a ritual for the queen of my mind.
Redeem me, burn me at the stake of your amber eyes, like an owl,
A shadow in the night, a haunting cry from diamond skies full of
Darkness and soft rains; another attempt to cleanse myself of all
Hurting and disgrace, I enjoyed my fall from grace.
When the morning sets the sky alight, I'll bleed on my cross of
Broken feelings, drugged nerve-endings; cry prettily for the
Professional mourners hunting new talent; bury me in the delusion
That you are still the queen of my mind; the pretty, parasitic piece of me
Which will not die.