The Ruins of Open Wounds

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Her eyes were both wide and meek

The sides, verbose yet incomplete

There’s a siren by my chest

Whispering the sweetest sounds—

Caressing skin writhed in some past-lived ecstasy

Painted rainbows twist and swirl,

From peaks fervent bright,

To tracts of clay buried miles

Neath where seas once stirred it’s might

But still I couldn’t speak

For A mountain I’d become,

Crumbling—at first came down the minaret,

Wobbling spires traipsing the hymnals ever worn

The head, the heart, the arms

Deride brutalities unearned—persist until

Obstructed visions collided forth upon each sect of fast fulfilled,

All that lives is all that’s died

Beneath the trellis moon

Commingling amongst a fragrant sky

The last steps of this laundered dance

Elucidate each moment that led to this,

A parade of never standing—

Amassed in shards of slivered signs

Scars of vitriol’s past,

Unleash hollowed warbling’s unto

The clouded veils preceding the hours

Prior to the separation of world’s imbued

At the foothold of echoic reenactment,

A pawn in princely attire steps,

Upon the golden throne—unnoticed,

Until all that’s left is a replica

Of some other’s would-be tomb—

A masquerade proven unresolved

In this obligatory palace that remains in ruins