the inescapable feast
a harvest of golden mockery
that washed away truth
the last act of
an unfinished play
with no Monologue
no dialogue only
silence that broke
boundaries of akwardness
that was Passion.
lone, spindly legged
and effervescent though
tortured with troubled verse
and dyslexic imagery
swaying in high heels remembering
wild animals behind jaded bars
revealing all that was certain
That
existence precedes another dead star
and another journey
crossing borders left unattended
(while he reflects she denies THAT.)
it was precious and horrible
now she counts pills and beers
(while he ignores)
She wishes she were an angel
I caused that.
I destroyed that.
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