Loves Bones (Marrow)

Call me not a seeress, witch, prophet or messenger
But I know a 50 mile distance and a 75mph blur
And there’s an echo, an unforgiving solemn, empty chanting
Crows reprimanding; Shriek –
Demand a fair accounting
But there’s no answer, no simple resolution –
Only chaos drowning in sorrow, along with all of these contusions
(Yearnings depth of no significance in this monstrosity of horrors)
(No bartering or begging when the cupboards are all bare)
We swam in words during our gasoline conception
All nighters filled with language that had passion and direction
But now stillness… scavenging – picking at loves bones…
Every time you’re out of your mind, you fill my head with your despair
I have no breath that I can catch in this spiny, dead, thin air
No remedy in the webs of my mind for these double-edged cuts, seeping blue
Poetic rawness; Our jagged, gritty Valentine
There’s no truth to make this better; To wrap us back in a cocoon
To spin fire out of cinders… pinch drenched into thirst
No offerings of madness will plump a pale moon that’s just about to burst
(Phantoms behind demons, apparitions lurking in the fog behind your empty-mirror stare)
(They fill their bellies with my decaying precious faith)
No blood sacrifice
From a serrated, rusty knife
Leave my demons… ravaging – Go find your own…
No matter now
The crows are stumbling drunk and foul
Thorny beaks vandalizing the truth with reckless glee –
Stabbing, biting at my shattered eyes
Hissing hymns of death so gruesome that they’re a lovely morbidity
Wicked talons claw a map of my body; A scar for every torment
Perch upon disembodied Loves’ bony shoulders until the very last moment
(Wretchedness presses its silky, slinky heat against my emaciated soul)
(Then wipes the dirty hourglass; Ah, my beloveds true name…)
A gargoyle mass of grey and gristle sucking from my bones their marrow
While the raging clouds of crows take flight leaving behind a lone, dead sparrow
Hellhounds bray morbid lullabies… damaging – until the whole world moans …

The curtain torn so the wounds could spill; And I am at the very least
Falling away… falling, falling, falling… I fell away

Into no good feast.

In the hollow, warm and humid, lay my bones with lavender to seduce
My vile loss into sweetness among statues with unfortunate eyes
From which lily’s do protrude
Give me an unmarked grave to speak where words failed
And your whisper against the cold-stones solitude
To drown out the deeds that were merely chasms of charred nothing
So that at least in death my spirit finds a truce