Of Independence

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Of a Ghost

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Dig your grave

Tip it back of a decanter aged

Past, present, set future

Cover the mask, forget the others

Voice of reason doubts

To be or not your fault

Fallen in deep, so dig

Dig the hole deep

 

Devil in disguise

Trouble is the name

Your fallen demise

Forge hope the faith

Of never considered reality

In the depths of your insanity

Bloom above, above the

Grave dug deep

 

Fight or flight

Test of trust in self

In shared want of touch

Needed not heeded in

A reality of pipe filled dreams

Like rainfall and sunshine

Dig the hole deep

Bloom above the shrine.

May

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   Beneath a blanket of stars, the comfort of a song whispers through open doors.

May closes her eyes, golden lashes tickle the curve of her cheekbones and watches the fireflies dance behind the lids. Hundreds, thousands even, swarm from their hive, an evergreen forest backing onto her garden. Their orchestra of light begins precisely one hour after sunset, not a moment later. She holds an annual ticket and the best seat in the house.

            May dreams often of the golden lights and the subtle perfume of soil between her toes, the soft caress of grass against her bare calves. She wears the same dress, always. White gossamer draped over her curves and slopes, as ruby poppies entwine across the hem.

            The stars dance with her then. Shining glimpses of souls lost and forgotten, they draw her in, draw her up into the navy silk of the night and into the moonlight until dawn touches her pillow.

            Turquoise eyes alight on the forest, as the final curlicue of fireflies end their display and disappear for the night. Their reflection takes a moment longer to fade, captured by her gaze.

Crickets tease their violins, interweaving with the sighs and coos of the music from the depths of May’s bedroom. They tease her with their skills, beckoning owls, deer and the yips of fox to illustrate how easily nature enthrals her. Envy of their freedom drapes across her shoulders, a heavy shadow lingering too long.

            May slips a breath through parted lips and stares at her dress. The white is as frail as gossamer, but far less grand and the poppies embroidered along the hem do not beguile a secondary look like her dream-dress.

            But still, she waits. Soon, she hopes, as the moon drifts into sight in a gown of the purest luna-light. Soon she’ll be beckoned to join the stars and leave behind the shadows crawling across her skin.

            Soon…

See? Taste? Know?

See?

The heart sings

Dance on marionette strings

Pulled by the touch of a lover,

Dance, dance and discover –

Never displeased by the sight,

Caught, enraptured by delight.

Taste?

The petals of parted lips

In softest pressure of a kiss,

Enthralled by the desirable need

The juice of which you feed

To satiate the infinite void

The heart which was destroyed.

Know?

The quiver of heart strings

The soul’s own plea sings,

Dancing the dance of a lover

Caught in the touch discovered –

By not the wisest ways of the world

But by the heart of petals unfurled.