'bleeding moors.'

Nightmare echoes
poignant
potent,
the surreal march
relentless,
crawling through my mind.

Shards of innocence,

Pauline
John
Keith.

Lesley Ann
and
Edward..

exhumed, all but one.

42 years, 8 months and 14 days late,
whispers of children,
slaughtered
taunting the unknown,
every orifice concealed
aching for the actuality
of events long dead.

Mind padded
protected from all i know,
sunken treasure buried deeper
than all of gods answers.

Hazy gaze eludes sanity
no matter how i fit the pieces,
lines distort, dance
mock and tease
talking, talking
yet say nothing at all.

So many little voices
velvet sooth,
fermenting to gibberish,
calling my name
tone changing every day.

Howling at the moon
i seek solace,
lines cut up
powdered white,
iced vodka easing me
to a beggars paradise,
fading memories
of what i might have done.

There’s no escape
fearing death,
when witnessed at it’s most horrific:

stunned silence
shattered the stillness,
my boy splayed as bones
ragged doll
dismembered
then
torched.

His innocence
inoculated,
face contorted,
the final scream perpetuated for posterity:

i alone listen

hear his beat upon the brazen breeze,
following me to my alcoholic

drug induced grave.

© 2007 (2nd march.) Michaela James.