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Electra Dreams

(1)

In my electric dreams, Daddy
always cared for me,
his neon promises delivered.

Words and notions, tears
never found such absorbent
sympathetic ears.

His grotto of love was
everflowing and cascadant;
never was anyone else above
me.

Especially when Mom left him,
Oh, I shined like a diamond ring
he wore on his pinkie.

But Daddys have their secrets;
his was how much he needed me;
I heard his eyes whisper it.

And I couldn’t stand the pain,
couldn’t bear the rain but
I stayed loyal to him all the same.

His silences were full of lies
and I loved them all; I loved to
believe them as much as he
believed in me.

(2)

How Daddy sunk like a stone
when he slipped off
Heavens precipice.

Marooned in velvet,
his cats meow beckoning
echoing; falling like minutiae.

Glassed in crystal, his
leaden eyesight wore
tunnel visions of her.

Her, me, I cannot know
the difference but to hear
myself calling his name.

In darkness, in foreshadowing
of all his leaving, his falling
away like dust.

Etched like a headstone
his devotion, his platitudes
wrought from gratuities.

To thank him, Oh thank you ---
I run amok when you grieve,
heart to hand, mind to finger
what a tangled web we weave.

(3)

Time turned to stone when
I slipped from his grasp,
a cold and silken retreat.

My fruition ripened on
its vine in gnarled graspings
long after I climbed the trellis
of his love.

But Winter would find
my seeds in the heart of another
silver-haired devotionalist,
as straying as I was.

I was his mirror the view all
the women he had ever loved
and I closed the blinds and
somewhere, in the blankness,
found me.

Me, a petrified thing,
puny and without identity;
a Jezebel with a jilted heart.

Inside, I ran back to him ---
how my footfalls echoed in
a calamitous, empty auditorium.

In this running, I became free.

(4)

Free to climb the cliffs of
madness, paintbrush in hand
chiseling phantoms into alcoves.

The trinket around my neck
was hardly heavy to bear ---
That I couldn’t love another man.

No man so devious, so cunning
as my mothers naiivete was graceful.
I was his pariah, his creation.
I was the only her that knew him;
how graceful.

The knowing that sailed through
my veins trailing words of relinquishment
whoring their weary pleasantries.

On streets of brandishment
I wore him all over me,
he fell at my arms like tattered sleeves.

It is this you love, (Oh, man),
It is only this tragedy.
Only words, only felicities,
and only in this you see ---
Poetry.

Poetry sliding like techtonic plates
aflame in a friction of reciprocity.

(5)

Poetry edging from the
convolutions of my mind
on a diabolical fringe ---

That is you, Oh Daddy
hooded and faceless,
call me your faceless child.

For I don’t want to be like you
or her, for that matter,
so sad, so decrepit in you.

Or so loathing of you,
Oh Daddy, my pining is only
in the needle-strewn grove
of your misgivings.

So soft underfoot, its shade
a calm, quiet, serene space;
the tall pines circle my bitter heart.

The birds dart through it,
it, me; the air hanging
damp, still and fragrant.

Here is all I ever was and
ever will be, timeless;
my heart endures this infinity.

Meet me there to remove my hood,
see me as I always was ---
How I loved you as she never would.
Written by PoetsRevenge
Published
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