the journey up south

it started in the middle of crossroads

beforehand was a list from the gods,

a sweet smell of loss and damp breads

in the pouch, a stack of short swords

cutting letters piled on sad ballads

curtains closing in, a night of words

smooth kisses had left bruises

on lips of the bitter one

voice muffled inside a heavy throat

yet found grace to mutter,

what are you looking at, old lady?

a boy, by no other name,

the broken,

dear Beatrice,

the long piece read,

this madness sipping in

won’t let me calmly express,

you’d laugh to see this one in the cold

sitting up in bed listening to the dark

hearkening from the cracks on the wall

groaning through the crevices stealthily

down the cuts on my arms like a spider

the dreadful silence sinking in my ears

dragging me on the midnight floor

the lamplight from above

reaches my tunnel no more

tell me you’re the balm in gilead

my scarlet heart’s now cold

my racing head knows no peace

would you care for a dance

long I’ve stood here

watching, waiting, still

this one time

for the wind to blow our way

one more time

would you care for another dance?

well, maybe just to have another drink?

this was the other year

before the bridge drove under,

the two birds of a feather

flew so far from another,

black cats at the end of the tether,

ropes cutting above the shoulder,

splitting blankets of lust in sunder,

such naked sincere daughter

whispered in the ears of a stranger,

never was he my lighter

he never was a good shepherd

to a soul gardener so tangled

in a forest maze running around

sands of time calling to the dead

like heavy tears in hearts of the estranged

still waters surely left seeds of love dried

passing a heart through the shred

thought the other was romance

for it did dress like it once

as it swayed to the broken dance

shallowly sown under the throne of lies,

chaos the only good friend of hers,

stale past shimmered o’er the rusty lens

old rooftops stained with memories,

the gory future stole a glance

grimaced by disgust and fresh ordinance

in it now knows no difference

it ends in the lost city of memories,

where children slumber in innocence

with broken cries, ghosts in disguise

bending fragile souls and flowers

in the arms of awakening summers,

cold street darkness of christmas eves,

fingers clenched tightly on blades,

humming last verses of hunters hymns,

sat a callous mind on dusty dreams