The Wounder

Shrapnel built of verb knives cuts veins readily worn on my sleeve.
Dwindled to my last, keeping my eyes down, averting wildly to the back of eyelids.
And it was.....and it was my death of a thousand.

Walking back to the seas of formidable woes.
Clasping loud to the east of wanting to leave.
We can go. We can go to the death of a thousand.

"It's so old, he is lost." said the wounder of wines.
A sentimental tricked into living the locust.
She is gone.  She has gone with the death of a thousand.

As we kiss, blades slice, leaving parts uncooked.
It's easy to dance with these broken toes.
If a thousand are gone then we're one in a million.
Fall together in love, drinking in the pavilion.
We are sworn, sworn to wrap arms and hold tightly.
Breach the mess, you can tear up, I can easily drown you.
Evil swung, I tripped, made it look like a knockdown.
In the car, we sleep, freezing black to your toes.
Your pure. Yet, no purer to the wounder.

Ex-lover.

Incomplete and by comparison a shabby decoy for my dream.
I saw you walk the stairs,
Wandering with aim dancing in strides toward my bed.
Coals are the palms meant for comfort upon my back.
My laughter ceased amidst the brush of locks from my face.
Heavy chemicals taking course to pinnacles I had forgotten.
You had dressed blatant, a wise regard to a false security.
You who knew nothing of true loss.
I saw you held in salt water,
your own tears, a saline disgust.
The wash of make-up, an unwelcome deliberate twist of my disenchantment.
Glass emotion.  Glass heart.  Glass brow.
So your road be paved and withered under your sinned heels.
Mine, a deep monochrome pumping this dilapidated soul.
Bitter torment to the contemned happiness unreachable.

Steady-Winged Acetone

Charred whiskey slid like pedals to the floor.
My eyes gloss and stomach beckoned.
I cripple to the temptation.
Less suddenly becomes more and the light becomes too bright.
Pinching the synapse, clasping the short glass,
I make shortcomings with dreamed rememberings.
I study the tape and steal belongings which were mine to begin with.
The books misled to facts scoured to the ashen leaves.
And we continued our self-worth burning a pyre to the tempered glass.
The label had hid the noxious liquid's strength.
I had laughed with seasons of scores written to the gestures of rain drops.
We touched the eye lids of skies wanting snow upon our fields.
I, then, touching my torch once again to the salt water,
Swallow yet another faltered vague fantasy.
Promising entirely to swallow me empty.

<(^_^)>