Valentine the Destroyer...
this took the most out of me, and I still have to finish it, because it's only half finished. So much to include and not enough time to include it all.
Beyond the Pale
In the corner of the studio,
sitting by a closed window,
where the frost grows with each breath,
I count the Haunted touching my skin.
The fingers of each cadaver cold,
and slither along the curves of my joints
as much as they glide -
one hand becoming another and passing through.
Tens of lips speaking through sighs,
clouding my memories with their lines,
about the best moments we shared,
but the colors in the room are drab.
The sky speaks of a coming storm,
one where the blackness turns to light,
and we won't be able to see after the flash.
We'll compare it to the loneliness
of being on a stage in front of people we can't see.
Becoming more articulate, the Haunted combine voice,
and the drone becomes a boom, thunder.
Only concerned with how to draw my veins on my arm,
a road map for a suicide novice,
but never intending to do the damage.
The sadness of their tears washes away my skin,
pushing it off my shoulders so there's no padding,
between the muscle and the burden.
Consequence of a burn victim without the cause.
One Haunted silhouette pulls through,
sitting in my lap, face-to-face.
The pitch elevates and her voice dries my throat,
it's a sound, a sound she left me on tapes,
a sound to sway me in my stance, in my sleep.
Fervor.
Removed drawers. Tossed clothes.
Upturned furniture.
Mattress against the wall.
Cut from end to end.
The map, my guide.
The tape. Buried under boards.
Uprooted. Nails exposed.
My blood is thin - and thinning.
Gasoline in the tub.
A match and the tape.
Every word speaks to me.
I listen. As if to dry - a thousand eyes.
My reflection in the mirror.
With her arms across my chest.
Her lips on my shoulder.
Forever burnt black.
The skin won't grow back.
Wrapped tight - inside your shawl,
I walk down the front steps,
a flame licking the window I was frozen too,
but finally I can move to where I would see.
A humble man, You've made me be.
Beyond the Pale
In the corner of the studio,
sitting by a closed window,
where the frost grows with each breath,
I count the Haunted touching my skin.
The fingers of each cadaver cold,
and slither along the curves of my joints
as much as they glide -
one hand becoming another and passing through.
Tens of lips speaking through sighs,
clouding my memories with their lines,
about the best moments we shared,
but the colors in the room are drab.
The sky speaks of a coming storm,
one where the blackness turns to light,
and we won't be able to see after the flash.
We'll compare it to the loneliness
of being on a stage in front of people we can't see.
Becoming more articulate, the Haunted combine voice,
and the drone becomes a boom, thunder.
Only concerned with how to draw my veins on my arm,
a road map for a suicide novice,
but never intending to do the damage.
The sadness of their tears washes away my skin,
pushing it off my shoulders so there's no padding,
between the muscle and the burden.
Consequence of a burn victim without the cause.
One Haunted silhouette pulls through,
sitting in my lap, face-to-face.
The pitch elevates and her voice dries my throat,
it's a sound, a sound she left me on tapes,
a sound to sway me in my stance, in my sleep.
Fervor.
Removed drawers. Tossed clothes.
Upturned furniture.
Mattress against the wall.
Cut from end to end.
The map, my guide.
The tape. Buried under boards.
Uprooted. Nails exposed.
My blood is thin - and thinning.
Gasoline in the tub.
A match and the tape.
Every word speaks to me.
I listen. As if to dry - a thousand eyes.
My reflection in the mirror.
With her arms across my chest.
Her lips on my shoulder.
Forever burnt black.
The skin won't grow back.
Wrapped tight - inside your shawl,
I walk down the front steps,
a flame licking the window I was frozen too,
but finally I can move to where I would see.
A humble man, You've made me be.