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What I lost at the Romanian train station

A handful of beads designed to withstand the most ferocious of blizzards, sparkling under my sled.

Shooting my eyes across the prettiest hues, hints of miracles, traces of history left behind each boot print made to unsettle the wintery Eden in this

my other mystery.

Stiff backed and leaning against the giant walls made callous from my wishes to love more,
to see more,
to never leave this place,

reaching for a sweater left forgotten like a heart on the clothesline, left to bleed for no one and nothing but the aftermath and nothing but the memory remains.

Fading now like bad weather, like bad skin,
like hallways mute the echo of the scream of which I screamed into and found no way back, expiring like the stuff of fantasy made to taunt the sleepy dreamer in her wake.

A million miles lay out like a snake roasting in the stink of heat and I hold and grasp,

but Ah! The void is truly empty,

and eh! it knows me no matter how much I believe in your wildest dreams.

But oh! How those wings gently moved us and the towers that we occupied kept the shy girls slumber, kept her from freezing.
newness inspiring nothing but oldness and disjoint skull and bones. †I am not a saint, or whore.

We had hope then, we had something more than a pile a photos. We had watches †that kept us on schedule, kept us from going insane, running my own river of thought, ice cream and black sand in my teeth at my fatherís sleeping feet.

Remember the night? †the one that opened its mouth, grinning at us from all the wrong directions, swallowed us up like a whale, mangled our luggage. I thought that we barely escaped but come to find out we are still itís the belly.

The four of us, outdated for the strangers damply perfumed, we examined them like morticians would a soul, if one were to emerge in the autopsy of corpses. Our eyes blackened from making too many waves, our names discarded as if our allegiance to our personal history was a joke, our hands empty bearing fresh marks of the things we refused to let go of but were forced to give up. The ghosts of the generations that haunt our blood they canít exterminate, but strip us of their memory still. The four of us given our four different sins that play louder than our voices swimming in our hearts , they infect us, until our dreams become defective and shrivel up like fruit left lone too long, like sweaters hanging on the clotheslines, like my inky heart depleted and all drunk up. Slowly they reveal themselves as lions, we find ourselves in their jaw, shaking and naked.

I donít want to roll around down here for crumbs anymore
I donít want to be useless and hopeless in the great beyond
be stupefied in the eye of eternity
But all there is
IS THIS

All rage turned beast, and our beauty IS our ugliness
The flaw, the cut, the deathÖ Perfect

Unimpressed in the worldís greatest theaters, turn our backs at the glitter
And all we are IS THIS
Sensitive to touch
Inspired by sound
Grieving in the face of our memories
Retiring in single magic quote
Written by BeulaDaisle
Published
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