shadows of glittered dust

I crack shoulder blades, first the right then the left, I reach into the sky to click my back with a cat stretch.  I rub my eyes rejecting the light. Blinking, squinting, stinging, spinning.  My fingers are smudged in yesterday’s mascara I was too tired to take off.  My hands, arms glisten as if false reality has run amok, I am wondering how it is I am going to get what I want, and if I will be permitted a key to Pandora’s lock. I think my chances are very slim so the outcome is more than likely to be: probably not.

Black glittered tears collect on my fingers, wiping away stardust. Nobody here to see.  Hear to see.  Me.  Hurts to be me.  Too much delicacy in efficacy, as long as the other is happy.  Never think about my own me.  But I should be.  And I think.  Unfortunately, prematurely, I am falling uncontrollably, I write what I see.  You are my thoughts. A lullaby in a dream. Ivory piano tinkles ebony. Wishing for a place we can be. Echoes in the midnight oil, you and me. Wrapped in a fleece like a sheep waiting to be devoured, boo Little Bo Peep, nails cut deep and I know I’m not asleep.  But here you are, downstate, downgrade, as the magic entrance fades.  Secret garden lost forever, nothing to trade.  Too afraid to state facts collated, raided.  Degraded me so naturally and nonchalantly…I shiver, and the banjo plays.

Plucking at refracting sitar chords, I will now ignore the stars spelling out your name.  Making some other sense of the same, giving in to responsibility for half of the blame, dousing out the flame, can’t bear for it to burn any longer, these thoughts that linger continue to drive me insane, writing for nothing and no-one, unable to practice restraint, I won’t even register if you have any complaints, better out than in but I’d rather give in and faint, paint a new picture, a new beginning: it was meant to be a different ending.  It was the lamb destined for slaughter, but as usual, nobody caught her.  Highly sprung, highly strung, on to her grave, God sprinkles dirty dishwater.

ink is free, so...

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