The Heavens

The heavens come crashing down upon my icy soul that flutters with every beat of your crying rain.  I am descended into the breathing fire that embellishes its hues with satanic bliss and conjures up its own seductive recipe for disaster of the heart.  I am not your parade.  For I am the blade that cuts into the congestion surrounding your lungs.  I am the forlorn that rises up against the heart of injustice and rips its throat apart.  The bombs fall from the eluded sky, and burst into colors of pink, purple, orange, blue and black.  I’m falling.  Come get me out of this frustrated tunnel.  The tunes of the whip envelope me.  Crepe paper melts into my tormented flesh.  I long for your fleeting ship to rise out of the abyss so you can gather me up out of this hellish world I live in.  I am vanquished when the river has become nothing but dust in the wind.  Release me from these chains that bind me to this stipend.  I will for the shaft to freeze over, and evict the sham the feeds on my soul.  For I am the wine to be shed into her blood.  I am anguished by the perils that cut into my shield and settle into my nerves.  I wish you would configure my destiny in the way of doors that burn with the golden light of the Lord.

Fire wreaks havoc on the pulse of the magistrate that acts as the caregiver for the Miranda.  Festive lights ignite blue sparks within the platitudes of frigid souls.  I am forever lost in this maze, because I cannot forget about the strangeness that goes on in the realms of shrillest moons.  I’m burning up for you, my solace that rips through the dessert sands.  May the solemn continue to dance throughout the grasses of your universe, and may the wild come to know the tears of my unrest that writhes around in the drifter’s weeping rain.

The devices that surmount the driven wall act as the voice for the misguided who strode through icy waters without protective barriers.  For it is this sense of the common that relishes this trumpet, in that man may sing his own song when the flames rise and the cleft falls into serendipity.  I follow you into despair where there is nothing but the scent of death to comfort and shelter us from our own strident minds.  If ever there was a one rebirth, I would betroth my vow to wed the infestation his shifting sinew has become in troubled hours forgetful begone.

Author's Note

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Reviews

[E. L. Foley]

Nice prose poem--sounds quite a bit like stream of consciousness to me. The sounds are excellent, it seems clear that a lot of thought went into that, and the flow is very clean.