skull encrusted with the divine

mended hearts tapered to withered frame

the tusks of death stop for never/

they maim

in an embrace feigning comfort/

locked within shackles of fern and fate

losing physical bodies to time

mending soul to stone/

there are no jaws of the reaper to mourn

only the still absence of pain

i rest atop the flower bed still as sun

blemishes of pebble and moss envelop me/

i am no longer envious of the forest

as my lungs pool and thrive housing

families of centipedes/

worms gorge themselves in the back of my throat

hollow sockets infinitely gazing at crowded sky

empty and void save for acceptance

old candles rested atop shelves, usually, a stereo was humming in the distance

of a pleasant room housing an assortment of knickknacks.

i savored the aroma, letting the saccharine melody engulf me.

inhaling through my eyes and seeing with my ears

tasting through gummed teeth

stale air filled with the prospering aroma of tea, really.

of gentle piles of accumulated old things and leather couches.

Cozied up in blankets i can still feel my grandma´s worn fingers softly patting mine,

an embrace meant to satiate a child's restless mind.

I can still see her toes peeking out from under the covers.

Though there was no stereo on, she would wiggle and sway her feet.

As if she could hear something I couldn´t.

Possibly the faint, dying melody of age,

and the sweet cacophony of two people who loved each other dearly.

I had her ashes turned into a necklace, the pendant representing the tree of life.

Often times she sits in my room, patient to be worn on holidays

and taken to family events.

On the days i am able to clasp the beautiful tree to my neck,

i am deeply comforted, as the pendant sits upon my heart,

and sings to me in sweet remembrance.

I am so unabashedly entranced with a covet for release

This pining that seems to crawl and gnash itself between my ribs

strangles this small heart that tends to skip beats

I crave to fold into a divine congruency within myself,

to understand why my mind doesnt condemn itself to obedience

in the same way my organs do

I want to know that i am worthy of this struggle

yet i continue to entangle myself in this endeavor of doubt and intimidation.

though i seldom admit this, and i know i am not unique in this mindset,

I crave solace i may partake in,

with blood i so hesitantly exude

or the reassurance that my heart will remain captive within myself

as a small bird, not entirely eager to flutter or fall

i could just as easily release it from its confines,

but where would that leave the rest of my body.

An empty little thing with a bit too much freedom

Or more so that same pining

a longing to grasp why i cannot bleed for better reasons

It becomes more apparent that these heartaches are rather self-inflicted

i glance at mirrors, glimpsing the shadow of my own hands

tracing the concaves of my chest

Though i am lucid, i let the hands bleed into me.

The reflection delves into a bitter embrace,

sweeping the heart i had so tenderly locked away

as vivid as the tendrils and passion of an ignorant snake

The head of the sparrow bulges from the shadows palm

the bird sulks into its fingers, frail body kissing diluted skin

Unapologetically, the reflection remains a temporary mass of gentle horror

it is pain, it is absence. it is vividness all at once.

its shape seeps back into me

confining itself to rest within the void that was once a weeping heart.

An attempt to console the languishing hole that is now my upper body.

a porcelain dining set draped upon a lonesome tablecloth.

I am inclined to elucidate the embrace of

two wineglasses,

a toast to the inevitably, meaninglessly profound.

The rims of the glasses ring upon contact

the contents teetering over one another.

A droplet succeeds escape

licking the cloth with its red tongue,

a hush falls as they intertwine.

Someone tries to set their glass upon its now prominent impairment.

to conceal the wine's desperation.

now mottled with ruin and disgust

The rest is consumed

yet the droplet remains.

it is tapered to solemn clotheslines

brisk winds set to chill its crisp warmth

the tablecloth is tossed

but not without the wine to pair with it.

Sleep is flitting, though I long for it to caress me

The dim glow of my monitor engulfs my jaw, the rim of my glasses,

they sulk from my face

Equally in wait of sleep to fall.

squinted eyes press tiredly into the back of my skull.

i drift inwardly.

Speaking verse in a noiseless enfoldment

with a pen never quite able to kiss the parchment of strewn-about paper.

Cupping the hollow of my cheek

and speaking sweet nothings to my own ear.

I am cloaked in the indenture of sweet lies

I shudder at the warmth of my own breath

sometimes forgetting to breathe.

I flinch at my moon-laden skin

not yet bathed in the tongue of the sun.

I laugh silently at the dryness of my mouth.

longing for the morning glow to take shelter in my room.

but it never does.

I couldnt possibly allow it to peel back my frail curtains

or sever the blackness that pierces the hull of this room.

It passes and i stare wearily.

awaiting tomorrow

For its lack of remittance.

I only wish to let you partake in my solemn remarks

to grasp a warmth unbeknownst of ruinous await.

But, like the sun

you soon shall pass.

basking idly until the moon strives to take your place.

i ache and i moan

I position myself to where no one can reach me

yet continue to outstretch my hands

Latch onto me, i beg

though i hide between smooth stones

and cover my quivering body

in shackles of fern and moss.

These invulnerable thoughts drift aimlessly

i have yet to drain myself of them.

Their receding tide pulls at my heart,

tightly encompassing the small garden that resides within me.

i am quickly inundated.

Now cold bones break from under dead skin, memories have been wiped clean.

the corpse of a once pained being is left to wander

a pale afterlife

I am all gold, flowing.

though not unsinkable, my legs seep into bark.

my body engulfed in stone and dirt.

Iam all gold, flowing.

one with the earth and her jadedness.

I now lay and kiss raw ground, and relish

in this blissful wake.

Flowers lace and choke in my throat.

vines entranced by the layers of my heart,

so obliviously enthralled they become lost in themselves

The warm blood pumps and oozes around them,

in the thicket of a buried garden

pooling at the bottom of my lungs.

repetition plagues me.

There is a faint thudding encapsulating my thoughts

I cannot hear anything else.

This dull light that casts the saddened

reflection of my tired hands, is the

only thing that connects my pen to paper.

No.

It is the only thing

that connects me to this room.

If, for somehow, i could detach my

tired gaze from my fluctuating mind

I wouldnt waste that moment, no.

Id hug time and then smash every

Clock within myself, simultaneously, almost devotedly.

Though time has ceased and rain

licks up the frames of my window.

The thudding persists.

Though now it has harshened to

pained sobs and wails, desperate gashes

embed within the walls of my captor.

Revealing the soft flesh of my room,

its tender paint and stucco exposed in a desperate embrace.

I am willing to risk

everything. anything quite possibly.

to taste the glass,

to huff the sweet scent of sticky air and pine.

I am unabashedly entranced

by the still droplets.

And if the shuttering and shivering clouds

that have unsheathed this dying sight upon me,

if those clouds could hear me in this warm, pale room.

I would scream out to them

how their attention tastes like honeyglow.

And i will always crave their adoration

no matter what is unveiled to me.

Life is so vividly absent without romance.

though i am inspired by others in a way that is tender, so reachable.

My work is still very much my own. I am sure of it.

do not forgive me for indulging in this,

for penmanship and borrowed words made my own require no forgiveness.

I will always long and reach for the kiss of my own words

resting on the tongue of another.

Once again i say, what is tenderness if not for a shared experience?

the most pleasurable and fulfilling excursions remain to be only

the things we are able to share with each other.

I am done with writing of supposedly and irredeemably doomed romance.

i only wish for the taste of rest and assuredness.

And it shall remain so.

you remain hollow,

a tempered spirit.

you are the one who severs bone and flesh, rendering your victims withered and cold.

though you are not warm. you are temporary and brash.

you are pain. you are dying. yet abide by the rules of infinite melancholy.

send stardust planes careening towards my ill-fated heart.

grant me the bittersweet release.

i ache and i forever long for your absence.

i feel clamored and uneasy. when will this sinking cacophony of fear end?

though your spirit cannot be tamed.

it is still very much bruised.

do not forget that.