years ago, but it lingers in my head
as a bad decision that will not fade,
and just as in all horror stories,
there are spin-offs later, and this one
is about to be resurrected with a
new theme of death, replacing sex;
curled up into a fetal, mental ball,
I squirm my way around until
juxtaposed with the prize...
a state of depression about to be
reincarnated, approaches slightly
and swiftly in the hidden light,
not to be so easily noticed,
waiting in the forbidden but ever
so tempting swamps of loneliness
that hide behind unused feelings,
relics from caring stories, never
making it to the business side,
gently hanging in thought nooses
for the plots to be revealed;
no more first editions remain
that need to be matted and framed
nor photographic sensuality
that need to be exposed or expressed
nor brush strokes of paint on
black canvases that need to be
swished and swirled into splendor
or whisper blended so delicately;
there is only the promise that needs
to be revealed at some point and
executed with last breath precision.
18Oct14
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