Innocent Footsteps

***Like Hell if know what this poem is about. Life force sucking depression and half a case of Pepsi aren't a good mix for writing poetry***

He walks, fossilized,
(past the age of when man first drew breath)
in footprints of innocence,
kissing her toes and ankles;
begging to be turned from stone to man again.

I come from a portrait of three men
in a bedroom of roses,
bruising my emotions
and leaving me to lick the blood from splintered floors.

Their skin crawls over mine,
and hate intoxicated breaths meld the ugliness of dusk
with the beauty of dawn.
Like my name written in golden cursive,
or aging tapestries the homeless man lives;
portraits of the jagged mountain I weep upon at night.

Yet I watch the blood flow,
his, and ever only his
from her crippled ####,
and the shriveled glass maidens
that soothe damnation with Her crimson fantasies
(goblets made of snake skin and silver
cheaper than gold, but still makes my heart quiver)

So together we eat white roses
my conscience picked from graveyards,
and she glares from a set of thirteen eyes;
a perfect fit for the thirteen faces of mine,
nailed to the walls we pretend to sleep in peace within...