Uninterrupted unions.
Desecrated remains.
Greeting by tombstones, a place to meet.

Blurred transitions, lost compositions.
Hosts deny, guests comply.
Thoughts running amok, decay impinges upon a rock.
Wrestling moments, questioning promotions.

Slow exchange of breath - a trade with the atmosphere.

Eternal suspension.
Partial existence.

Fairytale lover, where lies your heart? 
Did you put it away like a piece of unfinished art?
Or is it captive to the whim and fancy,
Of the unconventional princess called, Nancy?
She never needed saving, or so she said,
Yet everyone she ever loved always ended up dead.
Now you’re heading toward a similar fate,
Losing your heart at the very first date.
You don’t seem too smart, or else you’d have known,
She’s not the kind to build a clone.
Her art is the people she loved,
Never a portrayal, always the true essence of her beloved.

That’s why her workshop always smells funny,
And you’ll never see her squint, even when it’s too sunny.
She’s seen the light and reversed,
“I’ll miss you” – a dialogue she’s never rehearsed.
She keeps them around, you know she does.
That explains a great deal of her fuss.
She’ll love you, oh she will,
And turn your words into the design of her quill.
She’s a witch they say, casting a love spell –
On hopeless romantics who believe in the magic of a wishing well.
She was the reason cupid fell from grace,
And broke his nose from the fall on his face.
Perhaps the first cause of why love can turn bad,
is a girl pining for the boy she never had.

It raises its head,

Small, nebulous

But always furious

Grievous

Precious

Emerging from a hollow within me

Plunging into a hole beyond me.

It raises its fangs,

Sharp, mysterious

But always serious

Spacious

Spurious

Curious

Pushing through a dark mind

Pulling into a blinded heart.

It raises its eyes,

Keen, delicious

But always luscious

Boisterous

Gracious

Malicious

Throwing through the red chaos

Gathering into a black order.

I opened a book to read it, understand it, be a part of it maybe…

instead, it did all those things to me.

I've been assaulted by the bind of one too many books, 

they've enchanted me right from the first look.

I let them tear me apart in so many different directions, 

they guide me to the truth through redirection.

I suppose maybe at some level I let them; pick away at my heart, 

I knew it was a dangerous liaison from the very start.

I could be born again, 
once more be a person in pain.

I could be rebuilt as a boat, 
against harsh tides tiny yet afloat.

Or I could be a memory of the blind, 
floating back and forth
 in the consciousness of their mind.

All I want is to be me and more, 
become a character from a famous lore.

Between the enmesh of desire

My solace, my mire.

Beneath the bed of dreams
My quiet, my screams.

Beyond the beauty of eyes
My views, my sighs.

Beseech the seeker, the insider,
My stranger, my outsider.