let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Reading: Who reads anyway, right.
Listening to: the beating of my mind.
Mood: greasy.
2014 September 22, 9:04 PM.

Monday, February 20, 2012

The Child Who Never Grows

Tales bleached my soul
with whiteness so pure it resists filth
for thirty fucking years. Idealization
of love, the centerpiece of my grave,
shackles my left ankle wherever I go.
Fairies and frogs. Villains so violent
they devour little girls' innocence.
Mine is safe. Hidden from the wolves.
They sniff; they trail. I run; I bail.
When all things decline
into the reinstatement of guilt,
my path is an anticlimax. So winding
it becomes endless. I thought I saw
the end. Branches shoot like rockets
to the sky, like fireworks
of moldy greenness. The witch's
candy house. Its peppermint wind
inviting. Too tempting to pass.
But I am neither a child
nor a princess. Life is made
of periwinkle and pirate dreams.
Once I find; the other I fight.
He was beautiful as light. Faceless
black and white, what did he see in me
that wronged Universe's mystery?
Then came a game of make believe,
minus its powerful remembrance.
Re-emergence. Or a touch like it.
I thought I saw the beginning
of our end. Weary, awry, consolidation
projects traces of imagery. His face
a consummate beauty. Still, a wolf.

Monday, February 20, 2012, 7:15 – 10:30 PM

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