Roses no longer grow amongst these thorns,
Wild worn and wound, dead to the world.
Strike your match therefore, and put your faith to test.
Burn your monument from its foot where your head used to rest.
It’s a maze, it’s a storm; it’s a holy hand with a grip around your neck,
A cloth across your eyes as you blindly followed into an afterlife of lies.
There’s a world for you, that transcends the boundaries of hate,
It’s neither mine nor theirs, but yours to create.
The slightest of touches in the most random of places,
And a fire exploded in the forest inside her like a volcano on steroids.
A vague mirage of affection in the distance and her heart betrayed her with a mighty leap,
It climbed to her mouth and called out in a desperate cry,
It grew arms and stretched out to hug the thin air that held only but a hint of promise.
Sometimes it stayed and was splendid,
Most times they ran like the wind was chasing them.
But always, emptiness was just but a few days away.
Come, therefore, to the ghost rack above my bed,
Hang by your head and let that need pour out from between your toes.
Wring your body clean of all that cripples you,
Rid yourself of all that makes you human.
Pick yourself apart like dry paint peels from aging walls.
He was a potter and her heart was made of clay,
She was a fiddler and he was the strings she played.
In harmonious discord, they dug into each other like fingernails and dirt.
They were chaos, they were life, and they were the glass that gleamed in the darkness of a pit.
But one day, she played a little too tight and the next she fortified her heart away,
Deep into a rugged cave, far from his aching hands that craved to mould.
Soon, a strange sickness grew inside him and ate away at his sanity and inhibitions.
They found her charred remains in the morning with hollow eyes and an empty chest,
Hanging by her feet up on the willow’s branches,
Beautiful and heartless.