Theres a question left in the spaces between
our grand illusions, bruises and passion
an inquirey bigger than faceless names
a tug at the roots of deception.

And you're there
a stiffened monarch
a sterile needle
a terrible burning of cheap incense
you're painted and jaded and fooled with me.

And so

I vanish

withdraw

to be sacred in eyes that mimick my own
to decompose and wither
in hopes of a fertile sorrow
to sow tomorrow in.

I wretch.
The pounding of my chest has gone awry
since you've been missing.

09/17/2005

Posted on 09/17/2005
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