One Week’s End

These tears won’t reach where she lays tonight.

Encased in a crimson regret they lay.

The nausea and dizziness have subsided…for now

(though how long is that?)

I wish I could build the undying,

pure dream for me and you.

A dream where heresy lays written in blood on the dying souls withering in pain and dismay.

Where tribulations step aside from the path of devoted lovers.

On the wings of rain clouds,

I shed light on this painful heresy,

Only to bury myself up to my neck in razor blades and sorrow.

Did you ever really need somebody?

Or was it just the comfort of a friend?

Maybe the gaining of revenge;

me tainting your heart with grief and let downs.

It started as one line…

Then it turned to me upside down,

Saliva and foam as thick as despair,

pouring out of my face.

The power of the deadly product coursing its diabolical existence through my veins made me forget everything…

Except you and the rain.

Unconscious for a spell,

I awake with a knock at the door.

Heart fluttering,

a thousand gypsies prance about my scruples in a folklore paradise.

White heaven slung beams rushing a crimson sea down to the depths of my person.

Could this be?

The one from my dreams?

The door is slung open in a disillusioned disbelief…

A package for Yar.

Back to the dead letter room to empty the contents of this evil,

dour package into my veins.

Oh,

and grab Jim and Jack along the way.

Hey!

Did you ask the sun-golden Jose if he would like to play?

Maybe good ol’ Mark.

A crashing of the vault door,

followed by an array of melancholic madness.

Just a little bit lonely.

No one wants to be alone.

I’d choose death over loneliness.

But this mirror begins to interrupt my best laid plans.

That sparkle in your eye looks a little like hope…

Hope painted an arcane sanguine.

With a skin on fire like the face it used to be.

– Minutes into Hours…

This room has just been invaded by clowns.

They juggle kitchen knives and sing songs of eons past.

Throaty,

frothy big band orchestrations of gospel melodies.

This kitchen knife would look beautiful in me.

The razor’s edge and I shall become incorporated.

Saw myself into a fiery red paroxysm as black and bleak as an eternal sleep.

Bent on another world tragedy,

breathing air that should have been saved.

For worthy souls.

– Hours into Days…

An embrace of emptiness has given me the last rites.

I have found it!

A divine world where tragedies are heard.

Jack,

Jim…why do you both look so down and empty?

You were suppose to cure me.

Not leave me.

You’re all I have as friends.

You’ve never forgotten about me here in this glass,

smoke-filled tomb.

Where the bleeding never stops.

Where I am a servant to a man called despair.

The writing on the walls deduces my failures.

And this crying,

diseased face is not a mask anymore.

Why did I let her go?

I gave her up for a chance with destiny.

A destiny that did not include a lovely spring promenade.

– Days into A Week’s End…

Unconscious for a week,

I awake with a knock at the door.

I stumble forward,

ever incapacitated.

The horse began to blow as I watched the train wreck settle over my smoking horizons.

‘Nother package for Yar.

I open the door.

A package for Ray

You stand there,

beautiful and determined.

I beckon you in and close the door on the rest of our lives.

RMIV

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