2015-16
the curtain drops,
and the room fills with the twinkling diamonds of jewel-dripped throats,
the scent of roses,
a terrible delight at the song of the chorus,
and the inconceivable terror that this night is the last.
the bombs, oh,
such sickly fortune.
the delicate sound of glassware clinking on spoons
is the only thing you have to set yourself away from the death-blow thunder in the distance.
the thunder, oh,
what childish reverie.
if only we had noticed it was a storm without lightning.
if only we had heard the sirens above the song.
this is me, look;
a corpse, smoldering in the infinite black of a city, once lively and alive.
this was me;
dressed in apple red gowns and flaunting black lashes, laughing along to the men with black nooses and women with black eyes.
this, the bomb;
such tragedy it is
to call psychopomps from their slumber and drag souls through the veil.
the veil replaces the velvet red curtain,
as the actors take their final bow.
YOU ARE READING
Teach Me How To Fly a Plane: An Insomniac's Guide to Falling
Poetrythis collection sets aside religion and reality for the sake of a personal pipe dream. a mixture of poetry and short stories, the topics of these works are the kinds of things i think about in my free time, so.. whatever that tells you about me as a...
