I'm nothing but a tiny serpent
Biting its own tail, designed for it,
Teeth sinking deep into a familiar taste
I wish I could spit out of my mouth
My throat grasps itself in desperation
A freezing scream too quiet to wake up
From its torturous slumber
Too aware of itself to even move a finger
Towards the blazing sun my mouth hides so diligently
My shattered spine becomes one with the ground
My voice a memoir from a lost chronology
My teeth sting my every muscle
Falling down my throat, a bottomless pit
Flowers try to bloom and thrive
In the poisoned fourth month of the year
Their stems are up, their petals fallen
Only rotten remains making up for a year's damage
Yet the birds still sing
They still cry their hopeful deeds
Screeches trying to make up for my own
Too shallow and bright to succeed
Here they are, flying in circles above me
A crooked moving shadow over my dead body
Their weeping matches the nightingale
But their vessels belong to the vultures
And these chains, a gift from the clouded heavens,
Wrapped firmly around my wrists,
Are the crosses I bear every day
And carry towards a place where I can free myself from them
From the scales that cover them,
Dry and dull and drenched in blood,
As if they were a secret worth keeping
Spring always bites me back
Holding a thousand words in my regard
Burning and picking up the ashes beside the river
Putting me back together after tearing me to pieces
I tear my dead skin apart in April
As I sharpen my tongue again.
As I stare at the pouring rain,
My burning face begins to freeze,
My legs spread straight on the cold tile floor,
Wet boots and dry lips,
An unrelated antithesis.
The orange tree still resists
Against the forceful rebounding of liquid matter,
The sacred nectar of starving beings,
All gods' tears a mirror of mine.
I lay, back against a dead corner,
A victim of inertia,
A ragdoll made of sadness
And longing for unachievable things.
Time passes, my notion wanders,
My senses lose the sense of themselves,
My eyes see wandering shadows
My ears are the home of growing whispers.
Pleading is fruitless,
All those above turn deaf upon the sight of me,
I'm left with this jagged humanity,
And this phantom pain, a rising flame.
The ghost that is melancholy pierces my chest,
Apathy poisoning my veins,
Madness the snake that injects it;
When will this haunting stop?
When will all this doubt cease to be?
Sadness is a visit from a stranger-once-a-friend,
Time erasing the thick lines of its face;
It's a presence I despised yet missed deeply,
A lover left for war.
A war that will never be a part of me,
A war that's something else outside my body;
But I get shot and dragged away,
Its foreign casualty anyway,
My blood a carpet for the hounds to taste.
But I know it'll pass, it's just my mind,
My old friend playing its familiar tricks,
Juggling my thoughts and feelings altogether,
In this dance that is knowing how to live.
Here I am, standing still, arms spread,
Eyes wide open, mouth sewn shut.
I introduce myself to the rising flames,
A friendly neighbor, a loyal dog,
Fuel to its million hissing tongues.
And for that, I burn alone.
Snakes start to sing, the wind whispers low,
Banshees laugh and screech, dancing in perfect circles.
My lips bleed, my ears ring, my fingers twitch,
Humming low to the tune of a calamity.
And for that, I burn alone.
Fire licks my tearing face,
Salt and dirt, a feast for demons.
Blazing smoke invades my nose, tunnels of death,
My throat rots away and feeds my chest.
And for that, I burn alone.
I cry.
Oh, I cry,
But all my tears have turned to dust.
My mouth is set free,
But at what cost?
My voice echoes no more.
My flesh burns away,
Bones nothing but fine ash,
Snowflakes on the floor.
And for that, I've burned alone.
