ashes to dust (i think not)

"...Her hands are invisible on the wall, even not in the dark, and by the time it is just thick, palpable blackness, she can't feel herself..."





My world is the remains of a bombfires hemorrhage
full of the ashes of withered time and empty thoughts that belong to every plague that came before me
tainting something beautiful, three fold, from an abused freedom of will, and entwined with sardonic rose thorns that still drip a blood we sip on occasion
brooding on a confession that met a grave full of dust, trembling in the sight of a fear long since battered and scabbed
and I think about swallowing it whole in all it's entirety, thoroughly cotton mouthed and conceited
even as I sit and wait for the skies to throw a star for me to burn inside of
if just for one night
maybe I can fall into a cinders purity and welcome life for what it always has been,
just shy of a fallen angels beaded scar and ignorant to a miracle

in innocence I held the milkyway between my ribcage
solemnly drawn into it's murky quintessence, conspiring to one day drown me in the promise of artistic expression
fingerpainted on a corpses open mouthed explanation
split lips bathed in salt and woe
and I've grown into the solitude of barren space
longing for earths gravitational pull and praying for an obscene solstice to fold me deep into its white veins
so vacant and aching for the gnawing of a twisted, orange moon smoldering in the distance
like a candle weeping, begrudged by self wreckage and mutilated on display

in my dreams I sketched crescent shaped eyes, anti-clamatic and oblivious to eternity, on a frail, glass dipped quill
twelve owls perched, aligned atop my nightstand, and in perfect unison they rose to loom above me
one by one they ripped and hooked my flesh between their talons
until finally they delved inside and I buckled to my knees
dust filled my tear duckts
and memories of you forced me to awake and dry heave nostalgia for an hour and forty one seconds
in vulgar realization that we don't share the same features, with your ashes denied a wake
and my face, a superstition that even I don't believe in 
because my world is now the remains of last nights bombfire, a hemorrhage of what you used to be and what I've become