I gather hardened scars of loss and damage
Braided into keloid beauty
That are not blossoms of bitterness,
But fragrant beauties
That make me who I am.
Even the bars of your barren garden
Called love could not steal away
The essence of my hope.
Instead, the black, barrenness
within sugar syrup words
Of one never able to love
Contain no acid
To eat away
My skin of hope.
Accidently linked to Sundaymuse Please go to https://aikalandros.com/2021/08/02/the-vines-of-a-tiny-truth/
Staring deeper into the center of the pool,
The wisdom of a street wise Athena
Forgotten, ignored, stripped away,
She stood readied for the flow of molten metal
To form customized links of chain, binding forever
Spirit and soul into a trophy of destruction.
Thus, she stared even deeper,
Praying for escape,
As molten metal seared her wrists,
Her ankles, her soul,
Chaining her forever to the stone,
Making of her a possession, a trophy of destruction,
Displayed for an ego never sated.
Curtains drawn against the sun
Of an autumnal afternoon
Spent in another hotel,
She drowns in what
The bathroom mirror shows
Of emptiness in sapphire eyes
As her empty heartedness grows–
Her wrinkles a road map
Of crosshatched lies
Told and lived even now,
As her fingers grip
The sink edges of porcelain
Cold against her skin.
Her mind swirls,
Dizzy, lost in her creations
Of new golden plated lies.
Sit among the willows,
drifting in ghostly silence,
each wrapped comforted
by misery’s blanket.
Except I am no longer,
listening to words
carefully scripted,
tumbling into deceit’s
delicious dishes
easily prepared
by your thin lips mouthing words
filled with ghost meaning.
Regurgitated regrets
bitter in the soul and heart–
I can tell you that.
A thing you would not
ever know, catalyst of misery,
your starring role.
Except–
tell-tale signs of age
now crackle through songs of your
sweet, deceitful voice,
makes harder to catch
victims snared in misery
of life trials made.
Stop floating among
the willows, thinking yourself
Calypso casting
spells of delicious
deceit, when you’ve aged into
Macbeth’s witch drifting
in the ghostly fog of ego.
Endless mantra of your obsessive need–
Recited daily, hourly, till a rope twined,
Weaving a noose around me.
https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2020/08/29/weekend-writing-prompt-172-endless/
summer hot, humid
kills desire of sweetness
flowers forgiveness
falls decaying death
forgiveness dead leaves lifeless
blacken a gift heart
winter freezing ice
a cold weapon forgiveness
to cut the giver
spring new life begins
forgiveness lifeless, no seed
to plant, grow—never
The bird of flame rises
From the ashes in my chest—
Ash of forgiveness
Never given.
A woman once held a kaleidoscope to my eyes.
I, like a child entranced, fooled by a prism of colors,
Gave my soul away.
This is the lesson of you,
Oh, the things you do teach–
Wearing your blue mantle
Lined in blackness
With your crooked fingers
Tipped in painted red do you reach
Ripping out hearts
Adding to a collection
You keep in a box.
Until the day of the dead,
When you light your fake fires
And scented candles,
Spread your blanket
For the time to admire
All hearts in the box of your collection,
Chant your incantations and prayers
To La Muerte for protection
From the evil you spread
And La Llorona for aid
Searching for the newest victim
From whom your red tipped claws long to rip a heart.
This week’s prompt ~ Painted
For visually challenged writers, the image shows a rather oriental red bridge over a pool covered with waterlilies and surrounded by trees.
She lived a painted life.
Careful with her brushes
Always touching up
A chip, a mark, a ragged flaw
As she found them.
If she found a rip or tear
In the precious canvas,
It just would not do,
But she would oh, so carefully
Apply the much-needed glue.
No. Not a single person could tell.
Not a single person knew.
No one knew the time
And care and money
She spent on this
Carefully painted life–
Of verdant grasses,
Irises of every shade
Deepest purples
To palest pinks,
The lush canna lilies,
Fragrant gardenias and lilacs,
The splendor of magnolias,
The stately cedars.
Everyone speaks of a gentle stateliness,
In the air of her personal dress,
Her blonde locks, and her wounded blue eyes
As they looked out
Upon the careful paint of her garden lair,
A spider inspecting her web.
But her victims knew
Of every rip and tear
And all the rot beneath the paint.
For her victims lay silent, faint
Cocooned beneath
Many coats of paint.
undone in spectacle
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