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.