It Took the Death of Hope to Let You Go.

Like the aimless dawn
that breathes lightly on a haunting illustration,
she practically raises the dead
when both lips
feed on the snakes in my lungs.

The trees are white,
bleeding, and lying under them
my mouth wide open
for the hatred from the sky;
the sword sheathed in my spine to satisfy,
not even the Devil's sweetest who*re.

Made of clouds,
soft but faded in my stitched fingers;
my hopes, as ghosts,
like a child with a sheet and scissors
both stained with blood.

I'm invisible now
with these freshly cleaned sheets,
and a pair of scissors in my eyes,
pushing further, make me see Jesus
handcuffed by lies.
There were clock stories once
where I flew on fifteen wings (uneven)
over passing Autumns tormented like winter,
looking for her lilacs, spread upon the exposed layers ...

... With the zombie over my face
all seems decayed,
but even a mask will decompose,
and with the scissors in my heart, instead,
I see all in more than the colour red.