the falling walls hide my heart
deep in the ground, under the bed of thorned flowers
finding it equals death
as the poison injects into your veins
the walls fell
and buried my body underneath
the lonely bird sings over the brick grave
his button cotton eyes lurk beneath
buttons and cotton
the bird is made of, he
guards my tombstone made of walls
the light stone forest, swirling in my veiled mind
mirage against my common sense
the rocks shine with an unearthly gleam
as I step into the kingdom of moss
the root and the stone
branches; wood in my blind eyes
my blood gives life
to the age of glowing wonder
the crackled heart torn in half
fruit of darkness lost to the past
The fear is crimson, like a flame. It’s my private demon, dressed in gauze and silk. The royal upbringing I gave it, shines like a black star. Where I go, it slowly creeps after me, leaving dusk and twilight on the path I passed. It loves me. And I love it too, it’s like a ghost haunting me for so long, that I befriended it and made my second skin, tougher somehow, darker.
I am dark inside, even if nobody sees it. I hope that no one sees it. I am happy I am made, both of outer light and inner darkness. Isn’t that what makes us whole?
My mood now?
The lone ghost among the graveyards, standing silently between tombstones, reaching the hands to the unwilling groom. Her wide black dresses float in the air and her blank face shows no emotions. The wandering soul in the early September glory.
Mortaur sounds so good when the sun is bleak and the wind cleans the field from the freshly fallen leaves.
Nostalgic feelings of the day, checked. Strong black coffee, is what I really need. Or cappuccino. Nothing as good as the taste of almonds.
The warm, soothing rays of the autumn sun touch my hands as I stretch them into the air. I sit in my own asylum, the solace for the hurt soul – a tattered bench in the corner of the park. I always come here, when I am sad, when I think life is unbearable and it’s no place for me on this earth.
Here, I used to spend another life. It seems so long ago and unreachable. Like it was cut from me with a surgical knife. I was happier, more lively, YOUNGER then. I didn’t know many things and made a lot of mistakes, but I carried them with head high and hope.
When I sit on this bench now, my bench, from long ago, I feel only nostalgia. The filtered afternoon sun kissing my skin through the canopy of leaves makes me remember. And my soul silently weeps, even if obviously, it has no real reason to do so.
Listening to A Gothic Romance (Red Roses For The Devil’s Whore) by Cradle of Filth. Somehow, strangely, fits my current mood. I feel like I come back to my oh so gothic roots.