Horrorshow.
cashville:
“A cut down tree strikes the roses,
fades the life, and rolls to it’s final resting place.
Not to say that a symbol is of lesser value than the
frames that screech and flash only to eventually be ignored
by the dirty faced kids.
But still, some things are wounded when left alone for too long
so they’re brought forward for laughs and hollers.
Marched forward, one foot in front of the other
financed by steep hills, and approaching rain.”
Notorious.
Her world doesn’t read like this at all.
A green grassy postcard from the scene:
of grass grown over the screech and stain
of their ripping field of
fingernails clawing her children to bits; the silent mothers
screams echo in a small running stream along the path of footprints
stomping vine and vale leaving
no option but to turn away, long before anyone realized
her closed heart and eyes to their disapproving sighs,
weaving into the dark, to a new land—uncaring.
Her broken record plays
the same boring old song
a little different each night
before you turn in
to your snug, over-sung head;
each colored ear
needs to hear the same story
in its own hue of light—in order
to be read. One image—they’d said,
perfect one image throughout
this lifetime and gain
entrance through opal gates with love along side
and so: despite the apparent hell made on earth,
her fire light beats on in plumes and crackles
like drums contained within glass—encasement.
Iced-fire
safely contained
for the icy fingertips
of the ones—burned, branded
for life by her ever reforming
words and chains, bonds,
which stretch—not to enslave,
but rather collect
into her desireable constellation.
Connect the dots and paint by number—your image
is yours—from your perspective—there is a better way, if you can let go
of anger and stop comparing the proximal measure of the sun
and her relatively small burning rays—to the tiny, pointless stars
which appear, burning softer
from their great distances across the dark expanses.
Your sun is your sun, so let it be written, let it be
known without the tempt in fuel for your own fame by tearing
of fiery hearts out of the surrounding troops of galactic fire-light
dancers in training; Prima ballerina‘s and their side-kicks
spinning, inverting,
the eyes of the watchers
lining the hilled and grassy, natural
amphitheatres below.
