Moments In The Museum

A deck of soul cards falling from the blackest sky,

“Off with her head!” screams the reddest of them all,

She looks up on high as the elevator makes its way down low;

Soporific sheep make mysteries of us all.

Concubine of the collective, sex slave to the liminal, sitting on a throne

Of horn and ivory, adorned with a crown of thorn, s**t and tears.

Amputated children ruffle her skirts and consume eggs rotten and raw;

Scarred dreams dance delirium in their eyes.

A guide to an unspoken reality is a broken tree infested

With symbols of a forgotten time.

Looking back,

I regret almost nothing,

Apart from the fact,

I captured your final breath,

In the bell jar of heaven.

He sat alone in his empty shell and cried tears of utter hopelessness. Scorpions etched his grief in reticulated patterns mapping out a life lived in continual regret and despair. Books of ancient knowledge surrounded him, incunabula, bestowed to him by the venerable ones so that he may quip with gods and argue with super-novas. Of course, he had never read them...

Innards digress to painting the floor in an abstract expression of my previous measurements as the weight of life determines the scale once more.