Bullets flew
in the wind
with a sort of felicity.
I felt,
on my fingertips,
sticky droplets of crimson red,
and sorrow-filled tears.
I felt
that sort of darkness
all around me,
as if I was
the cynosure of the night.
I shook
with a sort of anxiety
for the imminent storm
to come.
I need someone.
And sleeping
from hotel to hotel
I have yet
to find myself.
Like ghosts
chained
to lost remnants
of reality,
I am swallowed whole
by the different blends
of dark
heliotrope hues
colliding and swirling
in the black hole.
Bullets flew
over my head,
and I lean in
closer from the balcony,
kissing the air
and breathing in
the gun powder.
The shadow,
whose hands
hold me by my waist,
whose lips
brush against my neck,
claims that I,
in my broken state,
am his wife.
I am to please this shadow,
serve him.
Clean and fix
the souls he has broken.
Cook and mix
the poison
that he uses
to lace wine glasses.
Please him
and soothe
his lustful desires
with the key
to uncharted isles
of my anatomy.
Bullets flew,
and I am forever enchanted
by the infinite gun shots
fired in the dark.
I crumble to my knees
begging the sky
to open
and pull me up.
No,
the clouds reply,
and down poured the rain.
My cries were in vain,
and slowly
I curl into a ball,
allowing the darkness
to sicken me
with sorrow,
pain,
and the cursed black.