~*~ Masochist Destiny ~*~

Crippled were your words like a still-born lamb. If reality was another word for goodbye, then that would explain the penetrating, heavy, dark clouds you’ve so graciously left over my head. Perhaps it’s only loneliness knocking on my crystal shelter. Either that, or someone who really ‘cares’. I prefer loneliness, or at least to be alone. I can gather all your pretend, lullaby sentences & sighs; dowse them with the gasoline in my veins & set them alight. They’d burn for as long as I’ve been in this special kind of hell called ‘reality’. Even if I begged for a convincing release, a tall, cool glass of water would still contain sharks…. –C. ’93

~*~ Divine Enigma ~*~

Trauma danced in his eyes entombed beneath a drunken palace. But all she saw was disgust. Sorrow pleaded in his tragic voice; but all she heard was anger. She didn’t know why the child in her wanted to slit her throat, although she had spent her days as a foolish grown-up analyzing every crevice of every horizon and concluded with nothing. She wondered where he went & why the lines on the mirror and the lines in their blank faces were the lines she’s heard a thousand times before. The child inside her fought to be free; but she failed, suffocated & died in the cold, hollow chamber that was her heart. There was nothing real except he. Too similar yet strung too differently with distance to notice. He was just a tortured little boy in the corner he crowned his own. And his purple, royal loneliness was all he craved. And she barricaded herself in her would-be Neverwhere fortress; shrouding herself in black simply because she felt safe. Hoping noone would notice her unless she opened her eyes. She’d just assume sleep forever. But he went away; down the rain-slicked streets of jaded preference. And she still seeks him in the uncertainty of nowhere-land. –C.’93

(*pictured above is the planet Mars, ruler of Aries*)

~*~ Karma Bum ~*~

Dead trees hang low over arctic treasures buried many moons ago. Forgotten by those who dug their trenches & visited by lonely wanderers. I give my time to fading memories noone wants to think about. “They’re gone”, they excuse, ignoring invisible voices calling to them. So I confess, I walk these grounds frequent & long, for peace I hope to find. Deafening silence; I swear the air is much cooler & calmer beyond these iron gates. Although there is a certain, overlooked beauty in snow covered tombs. Even where careless hooligans throw stones & break the sacred glass of those in eternal rest. Do they feel the winter? Does a Mausoleum named “Chase” born Dec 25th, 1704 know it’s Christmas…… 1993? The lingering scent of Chantilly perfume makes me wonder, since it isn’t mine. Some find my wonder morbid & sacrilegious. So typically narrow as the paths I walk. I’ve dismissed social acceptance of any kind, as it seems, I am only accepted by the dead. –C. ’93

(*the actual photo above is of the "White Lady" of Union Cemetery in Easton, CT. USA)

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