Your percipient roots grew right through
my black tar pavement,
leaving gaping chasms of thought on display.
Listening is key you said.
We slipped inside our untouched wounds, braving
the core. Your branches
unfurled too straight; snapping, we fell.
Are we fractured?
Precariously gripping at the cavernous
walls of your volcanic heart,
don’t let go. My claws have sunk
deep, past dissuading our
caressing carcasses intricately entwined in
a state of rapture.
I was dead. Who knew you would be too
honest, unashamed of incongruities between
your mind and sanity?
Did you think? It may be possible to create an
illusion, a mirror to reflect
my own consciousness. A fill for the teeming
emptiness of the heart.
You’re hollowed out now, so we crawl inside
trying to find a vessel
for our hope. Black skies hide behind red tinged
above our heads. Is it you or me or the lights
by which we see,
love, that shades them so?
What gave them their omniscient glow?
Masses of eyes stab our sides;
feeding on the possibility
of a smile. Our warmth morphed into sustenance
for their frozen bodies.
Tenuous harmonies we worked for ripped apart
by expedient hands.
Visually pleasing. Each preference as changeable
as the wailing winds in
autumn. So why do you assume? For you is for me;
please, don’t insult our intelligence.
Living vicariously, perched on a window seat. Inked
pages staining already
blue fingers fumbling, pouring life into a leather-bound
book, grown supple to
touch. A cacophony of voices rising to warn of
inherent danger imminently
looming upon our shoulders. Enveloping us in
a veil of deceptive comfort where our minds
align in sweet denial.