dark days

shell-shocked due to the arms wrapped, tightly, around me

what's there to say that can relinguish the down verse

a counter-spell cast to the nine winds

no longer an invitation to come along

a ratchet little thing, both wild and wrapped, tighly, around me

we are bound to meet again, intertwined akin to the fate of the drunk

and the canines that fell with age

silent like the cowards blessed with space at the funeral

dancing with boredom within

heart still beating not meaning much should you take a false step

no matter what you do, you cannot outrun neither karma or a bullet to the frame

the beaty of the truth is the freeflowing form

flexible enough to tolerate arms, wrapped around her ever so tighly

squish at a panic, scratching till ruby blood dances alive, majestic

magical fumes from underneath can only dumb you down momentarily

so I plea, I beg

hold me tight and keep your arms wrapped, tighly so fucking tight, around me

even if it's a dream

before my mind goes discards possibility

and refusing to see reason

chooses to awake to a new, darker day

where fire is both beacon and destroyer

and humanity is still filthy and unkind.

the frame in the wall

looks odd to me

it exists in tempus perpetum

like a comatose man wrapped in a blanket

hearing static on a broken radio, ocean by the window

a welcome rephree

betrayed by time, lovers and memory

happier in a dream where slowly I went nowhere in particular

under the vigil of an angel with a blurry face and a beatiful chant

the day I told about my imaginary friends was the day I put them to sleep

no substance can fill the void ripped on that forsaken day

echoes still like a vine tangled in the jungle tripping the arrogant explorer

now captive: a self-made victim

called the sirens myself, ready to start a fight

contrary to reason, wishing for pain

not satisfied by air alone, dreading setting the feet off the ground

hammer to stone, sculping a storm in order to kill the vibe

that somewhere along the reins has been swapped off my bleeding hands

under the guise of a lesson the seasons have come and gone

the architect of my own way out

not the strongest swimmer;

as a child I stood proud of my ever growing sheel collection

loving to play pretend, wishing for naught but laughter

as a moody angy teen the dark that terrified me nurtured me in silence and concealed me as it dragged me under the cloak of violence,

it was the knowing that my blood was the sea upon the ear drums that made me shatter my treasure and pride?

or a moment of lunacy, would I do it again?

was I hit the wall, swinging free once again

I meet a familiar pain and smile again confortable

understanding that everything ends but it does not need rushing

or a helping hand akin to the child that tangled on its own legs bruises the knee

firstly an uplift followed by cheering later on

one day that too will end.