Ri listen to "Moon" as you read.
The black abyss in the corner of the room, where not the window sits, but where the hearts of the wicked beat. The monster rages in the depths quickening the pulse and unsteadying the hands with a lick of his tongue. His breath filling the lungs, like water in the ocean, suffocating.
When but one remains his eye like that of the phases of the moon stares deeply into the soul. Questioning the pounding of the stars above. This is his playground.
If only one would never to be left alone with the moon dancer but as the eyes close the aroma of roses overflows the window where the dead are dug. In the skulls of the forgotten lie the lonliest of roses, the black rose. The sign of death, the door of candor.
Would one dare to be so bold as to prick their finger to stare into another's eyes? To see the ice behind the stone, the pain behind the throne. One mouth, to tell the lies, one heart to beleive them and two feet to carry them away.
Two hands to hold in the empty silece of the space where another's belong. One could never know how much brighter two silences can be when they beat in the spaces between the other's.
Dare to stay the dark with two ears meant for listening to the stains of the once white canvas now splattered with blood.
YOU ARE READING
Spots
PoetryThe story of my life in the words I can express and for the moments I can't seem to speak.
