Post Traumatic Stress

SUBMISS

& I did.

For it is I that hath been beaten

held like a bird by the foot,

cradled by claws

'til my final killing come.

I am a roman numeral IXII,

noises from a past life

take me to the dark side,

& I eat the ghoulish petals

of those poppies gone black.

For nothing else satisfies 

the shadow I harvest inside;

I hold remnants, eaten so unhealthily..

Until I can somehow turn them to gold instead,

but gold is only in their head...

Jupiter's Eyes

Why must my busy mind meld my life so?
Be it such a curse,
to grow an opinion
on the wildest daydream
I had ever imagined?
Be it insane
to then, write a book
on the physically studied world
which I had began?

Maybe
when my spirit rebirths
through the eye of my inner being,
I will be a moth;
Free
as the energy
that I am.

Of A Library

I dreamt of you

once, today.

Crawled through the catacombs of your brain.

I drank the liquid

smelled the stain,

read through the journals

that wrote your name.

The ground, it shivered

across my skin

through the haunting white, covet,

I plummeted in.

Became something I have never been;

introducing the monstrous magnificence.

An exit, so binding,

ran from me.

Holding jealous, was the key,

unlocking worlds never seen.

I sought the moon, 

just past this door

a smile 

she held for me in lore...

Fell beneath 

the cement floor

searching an escape, gasping for; 

breaths be short.

You took the time to come, what for?

Was it worth it? 

Tell me now.

Oh, but your breaths have stopped, so how?

Hands so curious for this skull.

Speak to them, tell it no!

Oh, you can not?

Well what a pity

I suppose I will take your story home with me.

Trapping the cover of your story within me...