Antigone

Shuffling.

In the short, grey confines of the cotton-bound corridors, your heart trips like a wire in the place of a bomb.

I crawl inside the burnt and broken edges of your tin-lined, rusted seclusion and wait for the touches and screams that break like ice.

Silence.

Washed in the warmth of the undulating love that shows no bounds past the bonds of eternal flame.

Shaded in the fading greys that tinge the shadows of this wanton gloom and desperate play for power in the dark.

Retreat.

Far out and past the brinks of the lonely wasteland of a harrowed soul , into the oblivion that waits in the silent solitude.

Casting far beyond the reaches of the corners of the mind into the broken shards of blackened skies turned so lately blue.

Reach.

And fail to meet the shimmer of that lonely dream that fights to live among the ruins of that passionate, blistering rain.

Beating, beating - fights to live again in broken wing and twisted mangled dreams of your violet-painted heart.

Touch.

And watch as tiny layers of broken veins - made of bitter glass - fall away like pieces of spun sugar, silk and death.

Trace the little knots that make it whole and find the wasted thought that once was all and nothing in the end.