Splinters
like cigarette paper caught
between as lead in stained glass,
work apart,
slowly slowly
driving to alienate.
Nails seperate the bones
white and frail;
wisdom's lungs collapse,
dragging down
driving, driving
splinters deeper
where the scourge has not yet reached.
I'm not as easily scattered as your paper and clay plans.
He cracks her eyes,
They’re brittle and broken
Apart
With thoughts of visions of—
Not him.
Imagine a bed heaped with cushions waiting
In case you fall.
You won’t.
Bottles keep you up
And nights are brighter than daylight anyway.
Join the poker tables,
Sing your sheets and sheets
And protect your fragile eyes.
A flash of lace, brushing the air,
Swirling, glancing,
They ricochet off leather and secret skin,
Swiftly kissing each other,
Twirling away,
Flirting, and teasing the orchestra;
Tugging at scarlet lips and cherry
Bows.
They ignore the ripping, the slashing,
The crimson stains as they drift
Graceful as ever
To the flooded floor.
Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong. — Neil Gaiman
