Silent man, whiling away moments with your oils,
Toiling in tragic tapestries, weaving your demise.
Heart stars dwindle, dance, deviate.
Trusting . . . ever trusting.
Misplaced certitude; circumspection not your nature.
Concealed fatality, moving under the concave cup of the world,
A red-cored lily--sensuous--quavering in sensitive blue space.
Overtaken, mastered, bested by betrayal, contested by gray.
Soul devoured by eaters of the dead;
Enslaving attachment rooted in your head.
Too much a part of you--
We covet our creations, as the best do.
YOU ARE READING
Poems for Morbid Children
PoetryThis is a collection of some of my more curious and macabre poems. Many of my poems play with words, the sounds and shapes of them. However, I often attempt to delineate emotion and sensation I cannot otherwise word, or I take inspiration from legen...
