Livid Skies And Crimson Dreams
The blue grey skies, painted above,
was a portrait of them, (illusory love).
His lips burned, from what he fought to unravel,
so he let his ghost of a soul, lament his struggle.
Your Machiavellian game, had finally run it’s course.
Your triumphant gaze, so void of guilt or remorse.
Pristine white walls tainted, with whorls of black ink
smeared into an ocean of grey, dancing out of sync.
You smoked me like a cigarette, and left me in ashes.
My heart was a graveyard, filled with countless chances.
Bits of my soul, had already turned grey,
and sat motionless, in somebody’s ashtray.
I taught you how to write, and you stabbed me with words.
You fed me black lies, and tried to hide the real world.
Flowers were the only gifts, you ever gave me.
You used to lay them, on my cold body.
Handwritten letters, red skies, and movies,
was the language I used, to tell you my stories.
Your responses withered down, to numbing silence,
but I still held on, to futile forbearance.
Red fingertips, a white shirt, and a silver headdress,
was all you ever painted, on my serene canvas.
Oceans of ivy, and rogue waves of melancholy,
drowned me with promises, of future harmony.
