1-
He gives everything-
his life, his flesh and blood, the very breath
held captive in his lungs for his son's redemption,
to make life over in a perfect, flawless, altered mirror of his life,
without the scars and damaged nerves clinging to his wrists,
or choking on nightmares, curled-up,
mouth gaping in a silent scream figures that grow and bend,
and break, and he's broken, but don't you see
he's far more lovelier this way,
blood-shot eyes and tainted breath,
dark and foul thoughts reflecting, from the
flat disks of his eyes.
2-
those little things,
they add and pile up
to a mountain of weight,
sitting squarely between
the shoulder blades.
They fall.
They cannot bear the weight-
laying upon the burnt ground,
palms flat against the floor
pushing up, feet finding
the strength to surge up again.
(and they leave me in the dust.)
3-
He presses
the tip against my skin,
leaving a blot of ink that fades far too fast.
It has no permanence, like cities and empires who emerge
from the world and quickly burn,
swirling red and (smoke that chokes their way
down my throat,) twisted words like a crown of
barbed wire and thorns entangled in my hair,
lovely, lovely ashes falling from the sky.
A/N~
It's nice to know that my art block doesn't extend to writer's block as well. (I can't draw anything and it really pisses me off, since I have a hundred things to do. I will be off to DA to stare at pretty stuff and try to find inspiration, like, right about now.
Bye~)
