Old

"And I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen."

As the skies that are my skin
- made of soft, fragile velvet roses -
wither into dancing bouquets of dust,
I feel my lips caress the edges of a tombstone;
a concrete tapestry depicting loneliness.

Silent words fallen out of tune
- bloodred stars dripping from my mouth -
and these words echo upon stale clouds.
My breath now nothing but an orchestra of crisp leaves,
that shatter as mirrors by the most loving touch.
And I weep so well that I do not sleep,
for I cradle with sheets made of fireflies curled upto my chin.

A heart, rough like bark;
an oak organ pulsating with misery.
And as the winter of death falls like the hands of pure night,
pieces of my face decay and fade;
vanishing memories
and theatrical versions of bedtime stories that once made me cry,
as I held onto the fragments of a mother I can not love.

Terror creeps along my bones as snakes,
- frigid strands of serpentine ice -
had slithered from the crevaces of my closet,
and wrapped me in their emotionless tongues.
So I drift upon tornadoes of broken glass,
long dormant tears dripping from long lost love,
pestering me with vivid scars,
that continue to fill my grave with sorrows.