cyclical decay.an apple falls and hits the headof a seamstress in a straight jacketwho ties her knots a bit too tightlyand can't crawl out of her own skin, butshe smiles like a jackal and plays gameswith the school children in the gardenthat visit her when class is over. theybring her wood and coals so she canset herself on fire when the moon comesto scold her in the night. by dawn, sheis ashes and loose threads, but has justenough time to repair herself by noon.
Poets Always Lieambrosial fabrications areeasier to swallow down whenincandescence is a blessing bestowedonly upon those with silky tongues.deceptions are beautifulin the right wordsbecause they are salvation, like arapture, they save the sickly,self-indulgent souls from thosetragedies they used to write on the insidesof childhood notebooks about whothey could never be [themselves]they rescue them from tremulouscorners and closets, hideawayswhere they've grown too akin tothe demons they nurse; and dragthem into a land beautiful enoughto wear light as a second skin(where lies are never discussedbut always shared)clandestine deceitsare so much more comfortingthan the absoluteness of realitybecause self-resentment is asnatural as a heartbeat to thosewho were born breathing andabhorring and denying all from onesteady gasp of what the existent worldhad to offer to themback then their eyes opened, andtheir fingers fumbled, born, they realizedthe world wasn't as pretty as promi
Where the monsters do dwellI once was afraid of the monsters in my closetAnd of the ghouls under my bedBut even they do quake in fear of those that reside inside my head.