It so happens that
true hearts, their bleaker parts,
those garnet gleams of dreams,
they mark us,
turn-to-dark us.
Where emeralds once, now smoky mass,
and in this tangled, grim morass
I wonder as I wander,
ponder as I pander to the
dissolute meanderings of a mind diseased,
a thing on its knees,
so please . . .
please.
Allow me to elaborate:
a spec-te-ral entanglement,
aberrant entertain-y-ment,
where what's within the brain is
plain at odds with what we claim.
I'm told our actions speak much louder
—do they, though? It's cloud on cloud here,
crystal shards in eyes deceived.
Curse the imp's cracked vanity!
My vision's through a glass, darkly.
YOU ARE READING
Poems for Morbid Children
PoesíaThis is a collection of some of my more curious and macabre poems. Many of my poems play with words, the sounds and shapes of them. However, I often attempt to delineate emotion and sensation I cannot otherwise word, or I take inspiration from legen...
