"Exit."

The slip of your delicate frame cavorts with demons,
strokes shadows of the moon
skipping through ether,
one step, two step
shuffling clouds
like a deck of cards
collapsing through time.

I light a cigarette
inhale fumes of death
enriched with arsenic,
breathe through rustic nostrils

my voice aching with every murmur

"I will follow, soon,
once the drip, drip, drip subsides."

My eyes look deeper

and you have gone

but so have I,
down the corridor and a taxi home.

I pour a bourbon and smile,
look to the mirror
choose not to cry

but enjoy the moment
tomorrow's end
and all she will bring.

© 2008 Michaela James.

The Attic.

Rumours abound deep within
hollow cries of yesteryear,

shackle
the truth,
fear

the embrace.

The monotonous rain congealed,
each drop splays the floor
in sequence

the chimes of the clock
mocking all who sleep below.

Time ravages all who come to pass
yet welcomes with a splendid hello

for here lies hell
the prison of my mind
uncontrolled

I and I alone.

I pace once a year through empty spaces,
banging my head against their door

the momentary shadow
talks to me
as I watch from the attic window.

I am the sequence of events
murdered in dreams,
the black and white smudged

inherited from demons long settled.

The caricature of life
captured by the lonely descent
of every passer-by

their prayers unanswered
laced with venom

choked by lore and prose

their God in my hands
as I sever each throat

including my own.

©2008 Michaela James.

Porcelain.

I interpret the bargain in my hands
your porcelain face

carved within the timeline of apathy

I anticipate the shatter of delusions
specific to my crime

deny the denial of my every whim.

Dusk arrives and
I hurt more than I’ve ever done

stick the pins as we collide,
capitulate to the whore of wisdom

consider your worth.

One day you will be mine
forever entwined

dust to dust
ashes to ashes

we will rise.

© 2008 Michael J. Earnshaw.