Rusted Past

No need to break the ice; no call for iced martinis
Because there's always the age playing the parent as a glass ceiling
But then you always liked to play the parent of a twisted God complex
A dismissive sense of obedience that could say to hell with all the rest

A contortionist asphyxiation; gasping for air undernearth your rage
Power doesn't call for an end to the means by which you locked the cage
Flames of passion that dispersed spread-eagle, bound, innocence
A slave to your master that barked on command with a flick of your wrist

Forbid that I may loose control of myself and a whisper escape of your name
But security abides you and your name was taken to the unforgiving grave
A cemetery plot divided from the light between the roots of your plague
Time as a device cannot cope nor can hope through my heart; memories become vague

But dreams become intentions of harm schemed under the cover of justice and right
And God may have clipped the wings of an angel but the shadow covers your face at night
And I know that one day the bottle will drink you dry; and your spirit will be smoked to the filter
Then perhaps finally I can dream without seeing your face at night, right?

Reviews

[Emily Elizabeth]

Another fantastic poem. You write so elegantly yet so boldly. You touch on very deep, meaningful subjects without resorting to over- sentimentality. You really do have a way with words, the first stanza is so cleverly done with interesting and imaginative phrases. In short, you are a marvelous poet!

[Mysteriously Me]

This feels as if it is writhing with pain; but then again we have discussed this before. I wish that I got to meet him; one of the others who was so adamantly trying to protect you.