It hangs
crystal covered and glittering
down from the points of one's conciousness,
frail and brittle
counting nothing
except for the sounds of the stares and the bloodfall.

Measuring inconsistancies,
consistancies and tattered organs
this is boring through the depths
of all your freefall wakings.
This is spilling itself across the paper
in splashes of ink that know all your treacheries
(pouring them droplet by droplet
into the fibres of parchment you rest at your desk
while the lamplight watches and plots
your defeat on and on
on and on).

Keep the squeal of the gears all in check
and sign a thick X on the thin dotted line
as you slide the paper across the table
and buy the rights to an Endless Love
oneonethousand, twoonethousand...

Holding on to fantastical notions of uncontrol
you slip through Gods fingers like sand through a sieve
'til the fires of Hell melt you down
and transform you to glass...

Then you'll fall from the sky again
bird full of feathers
down down like a stone
with no wind for your labour.
Tinkle on tin roofs
and break the stained windows
that line up the walls of some hollowed out church
way out there in Nothing Land.

Pieces of you
left to writhe as the building
comes down from the weight of your weakness
and burns in the light of your PeterPan Shadows.
(You plot your defeat
on and on
on and on...)

12/11/2003

Posted on 12/11/2003
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia