Call it Shit or Call it Beauty

There lies a dusty feeling
That creeps through the vents
The familiar places
Between the soft curves of your stomach
And bare bones of my hips

Words
are subtle breezes of madness
licking away
at the embers

Of my cigarette

Until nothing is left,
but the butt of my sanity.

And in the morning
             the faint traces of voices
Left underneath my bed
Are silent lambs,
that await their slaughter

Love is naught’,
Other than
An itchy patch of ice, frozen in the shade
Rooting in the asphalt
Morphing with the night

Calling people to the ground,
With its thick and clouded silence

Even as sunny days come bulldozing through,
this ice will never thaw.
Leaving black smudges,
Where hearts used to pulse

But still, I’m called to consume this unknown
Biting into it, only to find it is my own.
A sly, conscious infection,

That turns poets into gravestones,
and demons into dreams.