In my picture frame of mind,
Your red eyes are white,
Your hands clawed and bent
like hooks pierced deep in raw meat,
your white fingers turn red.
You carved your sacrifice into the frame of the bed.
Your wax wick tongue flickers and dances silhouettes in your hollow cheeks.
Juggling ceramic urns spilling ash like snow flakes, each one its own unique shape,
as you beckon to the shadow behind the panes,
membranous windows in bone frames.
Pulling, a slithering, sliding, weary soul
reluctant to leave,
seductively persuaded by the rough white lace grip.
YOU ARE READING
Confusion in Underground Clouds
PoetryThis is a collection of assorted poems, detailing one consciousness extending and swirling into another, and another, and another.
