My royalty does not exist. Extinct for the eye to see.

All of my voids filled with sin. My demons, within; my little empire, well, it doesn’t make a sound.

Memory has become pain.

No truce with my fury.  Newspaper cuttings.

Eating all the kings and queens. The sex and the diamonds.

Deny my history.

I love you all the same. Lost in the undergrowth.

Small black flowers that grow in the sky. Bruised. Wilted.


Mirrors of my own happiness. Shattered.

No exit signs. Freeze me until I am numb.

My dilemma? Not my choice.

A new autumn light.

Summer solstice. What’s my poison?

Subtext. Content. Not the sort of thing I want to write.

Is it unfashionable to believe in principles?


~ by hooklineandthinker on June 12, 2011.

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