Her angels will never be told
how obsessions were chosen her hassock in her throne
to comfortably praise them with breathing flames
and wings on her fingers;
to speak out of hand.
Loneliness, as she keeps an evil, accompanied
to play with curiosity with wagging tails.
She does not want it.
How dare she rush waves toward thin?
to try and decoy sand betwixt her palms,
to strangle prisoners living beneath her eyes—
begging cold for their thirst
Madness towers over her obsessions.
With coy knuckles, they knock on lonely doors—
alive to breathe the despair of a caged bird,
though she fears not wishing upon starless nights
one day for a haven to welcome her with a feeble mouth
and scars to justify uncontrollable yesterday.
Every caress of craze gets harder to breathe;
it grips every arc on her bones.
Every hour, unwanted war inside her head
scribbling wildly with no direction in Eden,
only to see the hands of Eva painted on her—
leaving the external confusion somewhat powerless.
She does not want it.
There were atoms of little hopes
dancing inside her lungs.
As her soul smokes death,
slowly, she suffocates them one by one
'til she couldn't get a glimpse of the sun.
Her mind screams, her mind screams!
Screaming like trapped through blades of angry veins—
echoing beyond their red-eyed walls
until it cuts the rhythm of her heart—
until it splits her wings in half
that she wouldn't flee from silent killers she created her own;
to build and destroy.
To build illusions she once desires
and to destroy saints with unspeakable tales.
Stop. Enough.
To be able to sleep while obsessions battle against
who would put the success into oblivion,
who would sing with failures a lullaby—unspoken.
She never wanted that she has gone a little rotten.
