MirroredHow does it feel to look upon yourself, you ask?
A steely glint of purple in your eyes.
Unruly syncopation in the way you walk,
Your uneven way of speech which you despise...
Your nails long and sharp, your hands a pasty grey,
Adorned with jewels and metals doomed to rust.
Kill me if it means your resurrection, dear,
For my mirror shatters long-established trust.
I’m too far gone to think about resistance now.
My truths, when shattered, almost don’t reflect.
A spiderweb-reflection frames the lonely piece-of-eight
Tied, by pirates, tightly ‘round my neck.
Chains of gold, ropes of stripes and cotton soaked in blood
Cut my heart in half, It’s bleeding out.
I look at my reflection, not for faith or reassurance,
But for a glimpse of all the things I’ve lived without.
SomehowSomehow, someday, somewhere.
The White Rose; the last stand.
It stood for more than was written,
Like a the crack of thunder or a rising wind.
The White Rose; the last stand,
A desperate and echoing cry in the dark,
Like a wave crashing on the rocks.
Don't tell me you can't hear it. I know you can.
A desperate echo, a cry in the dark.
A last resort, to reach the deaf ears, the blind eyes.
Do you really not hear it? I know you can.
Stop lying to yourself. Read the pamphlet in your hands.
A last resort. To reach the deaf ears, the blind eyes,
Words on paper.
Stop lying to yourself. Read what you have in your hands.
Pains of death for a greater good? Good is what you make it.
Words on a paper.
They stood for more than they said.
Pains of death for a cause will be just,
A Curse and A ThoughtWhat is it about her?
Her cocky grin, feathery hair,
Her curved cheek, her sharp stare?
What is it about her?
Her long fingers, thin arms,
Her smooth lies, her dark charm?
There's just something about her.
Her blind courage, her brave heart,
Those little things about her,
The qualities that set her apart.
Her manner is mocking, harsh and critical,
Her mind is strictly analytical,
Her heart is cold, and black as coal,
So that all hope was lost in saving her soul.
And hidden inside her there always has been
A war between evils she never can win.
There's something about her, her legacy's law.
A traitorous penchant.
Her one fatal flaw.
And without it, this curse, her fervor to lie,
She'd repent her mistakes.
Why, she'd do it or die.
But until that day when time fall apart,
She'll have to survive
With her renegade heart.
If you catch her, perhaps, in mid-examination
You may find she is wrapped in enthralled rumination
Of a thought.
Of a thought .
Of a thought.
Of a game.
Red RosesThe terrors of towers of thorns upon thorns,
through the frozen and frigid garden he crept,
On his hands and his knees, ever freezing and slow,
The nighttime was heaven, yet nobody slept.
But a flicker of red, like a small drop of blood,
Stood perched high atop it's frosty dead throne.
Only one of it's kind, the last rose in the garden,
The prize this brave boy would soon call his own.
Greedy yet selfless, he grabbed at the thorns,
His vision fixed forwards, eyes frozen in fright,
His hands were ripped open in neat little cuts,
His skin a pale and death stricken white.
But with ambitious tendencies, foolish and blunt,
He could not live without the rose's warm glow.
He stole it from heaven for someone he loved,
And collapsed in a cold bloody mess in the snow.
His thoughts quickly vanished, and in came the dreams,
which comforted him through his icy descent,
He died holding petals, his weak, guilty heart
singing songs of the sins he could never repent.
From the moment he saw her, he knew
Bloody HandprintsThe fall of rain,
on the window pane.
The drips that roll,
free from their landing surface,
to the mud below.
The tears of heaven
lay a sad, mysterious
trapped in the rainfall.
Like the mud,
the rain stains us.
the rain stains us.
Heavy and soaked wet with grief,
in hope of washing it all away.
like Lady Macbeth cried,
we are all stained
with the sticky spots of sin
that won't come off.
Those damned spots,
rub, cry and plead as we may,
are forever tattooed on our hearts.
A bloody handprint
on each of our foreheads
would just as easily tell the story
that no one wants to hear.
A Quiet CityA quiet city.
It was a small place,
A young place,
Still catching up to it's title.
It was dusty and scarce,
Full, somehow, of space,
It was full of hope,
So much hope,
Such juvenile, supercilious hope.
that took the hand
of each child
who wandered through
The city was a parent,
A small, pitiful beacon
in the dark expansive universe.
The city would draw you in,
like so many others,
Close to it's flaming heart.
And there it would hold you,
safe in it's heat,
Protecting the children.
The quiet city had a purpose.
But the quiet city did not have a name.
So the children named it.
They named it Hope.