Stringless fabrics weave the skin you let me touch and engrave,
Inked in my memory and heart to blaze,
I feel the water rise to carve my shape,
But I don't drown, I fill like I am nothing but a waste,
By our own creation, how are memories never erased?
There's poetry hidden in my soul and sparkless stars in my eyes,
How come whenever you are here, they incandesce to life?
We make hands pour in a gracious way to tremble the feet and roll their eyes,
Their trace swirls in my head and makes history in my mind,
But you make it rest in the back as art begins to materialise.
How do I even dare speak to you and look in those eyes?
When you make me spin in fantasies and colors that symphonize,
You creep the structures of old to expunge through my limbs,
Distortion flourishes as we begin to paint the skin,
Life is violent, so violent we shall be,
Until the last petal will decay to align with the scene.
You make the stars be my eyes,
And one by one, you blind them to paralyze,
You give me such calm states and disastrous things to imagine,
I may only dream about, but I tend to miss them from time to time,
And when you pull me close, then I can feel more than just ease in a small dose,
I feel one center that gravity ignores, but draws me in just to impale my laws.
You mix me, but I never dillute,
Catalyst?
Ruin my life in hundred deeds,
Make me grip my sanity and believe nothing exists,
Empty me of haunted thoughts and nightmares of your beliefs,
I only want you to make me another artistic piece in silence,
To collect and be the final string that asks for guidance.
Oh, to be your pattern,
I would be the last, empty and dull chord to brush your ears,
The final strike to your uniform points... to distress all those years,
I would weave the ring to echo, but never blend within your head,
As you have to be the final act too, and I will die being strong,
Even if your fingers are pierced and my hands are cold.
And as you strum your voice to the threaded patterns inside my chest,
So will I, to make you have a peaceful rest,
Every night and every time you need me to nest,
Those echoes this world haunts you with at your best,
For I will be here evermore,
Ready to keep them, for your body to dress in paint and never tore.
All the voices are in my head and spin,
But yours... yours is placed in my heart,
Yet I never hear,
So lean in, whisper to my ear,
Mesmerise me while I spell you through my needle.
You weave me, so I weave you,
Like the hands that touch, but never hold,
Yet, do we create?
Let's see:
If you sew me whole, but add your arms to hold me toghether,
And put your heart to my chest,
I shall do the same in the piece I create,
And I will place my heart in your hands as you give it a purpose and shape,
But tell me now: how do we escape?
YOU ARE READING
Perturbance
Poetry"The chaos is scattered and split, but the order it has is not for us to see." Here is my 2nd poetry book, yet another journey delving into the depths of the mind to uncover one self. The chapters will diverse in theme, yet they will be having dark...
