No Title.

A
Lioness made of
shattered glass,
she should be
beautiful.

But I
see no trace of
that, no light
illuminating
her smile.

Instead,
I see an empty
liquor bottle,
eyes amused by
the sea.

It threatens
malignity, her
ocean of satin-laced
solemnity,
indicates illness.

It demands
it's victims, a
trembling Lioness,
a beggar beneath
the surface.

Instead,
it leaves, trails of
depression in wake, and
it should be beautiful, the sound,
tiny footfalls of imagination.

But I
feel it, carving
the insides, coiling, accusing,
suffocating reality into
nuance.

A
world, so delicate,
so intoxicating,
it leaves even its best hunters
breathless.