Promenade through Death

 

Her willing belief, lost between

the falling shards of patterned potential,

wrapping mannerisms,

spaced between the brew building

beneath the aching bones once more,

the house was her empty vessel

lacking the past between and entwined,

with all the lasting, shifting, dreams

that herald kingdoms to the dusks,

of Neither, and Nor,

the spiralling tomorrow,

the slip away in disgrace,

her heart felt their burden,

buried below the rainwaters calm,

she gave him grace

that danced in all she was in instants

lapping at his shorelines

for Nothing More, Nothing More

than his touch and tribute,

she stirred and bopped

in time to his pulsing veins,

standing rigid against his membrane,

to be

more than shadow

in his heart-breaking vision, the nylon

removed in passion before the claiming

of her eyes, sky high, and darker waters,

his premonition of life bountiful, black

and marked with her X,

prerogative, his right

over her lithe soul,

there was little she knew,

her willing belief, lost between

the falling shards of patterned potential,

she planet seeds

and life grew

the nine steps to vengeance new, formerly the dead snow

and sharpened fallout, the riptide, the dream eater,

“What Cinderella Branches Blind You, My Dear?”

The scent of passing fluctuating the growth,

that lied of living in all God’s creatures, prepared for spheres,

“Perception Of The Chasm,

The Fall Is Always Sweeter,”

The ‘voice of reason’ reasoned

slipping serpent tongue against her thoughts,

trailing up her thighs to each Never Never desire,

“Strangers Come And Go,

Strangers Deface The World,

And You Flow Through Fragmented Ego”

she took his hand

broken skin as dry as Arabian nightmares,

the consuming king leading home his whore,

she never slept again,

beneath the walls that echoed her empty vessel,

the Ol’boy laid her to rest in shallow words,

envisaging

the Neither, and Nor,

and she laughed it all away, promises, being human,

swathed in grief and fray, genesis, each lose consumin’,

for Nothing More, Nothing More.

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© Phen Weston 2015

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