Walking eyesore – cancerous smile,
a figure thin, for clay
had been carved with quivering fingers,
while autumn was never in delay
upon that time,
faced with that crime
your sickness could not be told apart,
pulled apart, from encircling decay.
Rings of fire
burn your finger to cling
onto roses, for a purpose
of knowing when to hear spring
be made, as your mask.
Once, with a soft smile,
and it took a mere second
to burn you down
into frostbitten coldness,
because you gleam there,
beneath an imagined sun
while winter grows,
comes close in surrounding cold,
because no warmth embraces you
in that saline emptiness.
Shed your perfume,
build your thorns
as those tips for your fingertips.
Ache, when ashes are granted,
spread over your coffin,
crumbled, as dried leaves,
while a passing storm,
are the only tears you’ll receive.
Modern Romanticism 