the wail of a dying demon
its hard to look beyond these twisting thoughts
these inventions of need,
they hang like clouds
rain comes like the wail of a dying demon,
a tortured look upon a face
reckless and coloured cinnamon,
be at peace with me
insomnia is our sleep,
this idyllic cyclone of lies woven on a loom
made with the bones of loathing a phoenix on wheels in the corner is placed,
a love of old that wont fly; clipped wings only try so long
blindly flapping, tears will weigh them down,
the fostered mistrust made its way down the rhythm of shame
it took a breath as it surveyed a fresh kingdom,
its eyes glint and glow with a smile
fear is a ride ridden, knuckles damp and ashen,
we were happy, weren’t we?
when we touched and caressed our own self image,
are we growing, or are we overgrown
a garden lawn, together,
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