Shortly after my husband locked himself in the basement and I flew to the States, He disappeared. Refused to answer my emails, texts, my frantic worrying he had committed suicide and those demented people just did not bother to tell me.
One night I woke because I could “sense” when he was online and He appeared. Refusing to answer my IM’s but not blocking me. Deliberately being available for me to see him without a single word in response.
It was a sick game but I am the kind of woman who tries to keep her word no matter what and I wrote for seven months until I realized it had been narcissistic abuse and he had deliberately assassinated my reputation before his family. I was brought there just for the purpose of trophywife/beard and straw man. It was a year and a half before my father in law wrote me about our divorce.
Heart racing, panic attack imminent I rushed to Jalen whose response was to bitchslap him with a poem because just doing the friend rage thing was not stylish or artistic enough for her, God I love her.
We still are not sure if the third part (Future) was about him or someone in the future. Because it felt like Spirit telling me to write him was toying with me and deliberately wasting my year and a half before I got West. We were cryptically told once when meditating.
“Shows over Folks, you can read all about it. Foxy singer mourns meek husband.”
Thats all she wrote.
Its not me who has more to tell, its Time” Spirit told us one night.
To which I had a fit, thinking it was some dark entity messing with us and completely disregarded the warning that my writing was a waste of my energy and heart.
The entire epic was a vision she had when she asked Spirit what exactly it was like for me in Europe.
I am quite healed but when a trigger gets hit. I am going to share it. Someone might learn from my or her, pain, trauma and toxic past experiences. That makes it all worth it. When I hear someone is healed even a fraction more by one of my stories. I cheer.
I decided tonight to share her inspired work. Hope you enjoy.
*JalenJoyce* wrote the poem.
I called her Rio while working on the website.
Clear the heavy sick from your throat, crack the stiffness from your tight bones,
stand taller than you have in the past few months, but drop the pride and humble.
There is nothing as good as what you have now.
There is no earthly gain compared to the intangible treasures you have rejected.
Trudging into a darkened path ranged with brittle trees resembling bony, ill-intended
hands reaching out, you are followed with screeching whispers, murky shadows, and
disheartened cackles from ones who are not there fore you, and never have been.
Under their presence you crack, and your guts you have puked all over the floor.
And you have expected her to clean it up?
You have wrapped the umbilical cord around your neck, are you happy with the
outcome of your decorative noose?
Face a mirror,
Witness the glittering is not gold as it drips blood you have forbade in.
Now that we have been acquainted let us talk about the one. The only one.
You have felt her for the entirety of life now, as you known the hums belonging to the woman,
fluttering in and out of your dreams.
Until the summer breeze implored for thread to spin into gold, for fantasy become reality
and now, you have known the woman of your dreams, for many seasons.
A deadly beauty, she carries a melodic and mesmerizing voice,
possessing Siren powers to drag your soul to the icy, watery depths of hell.
Yet sultry looks indefinitely betray her true nature as she is angelic with a healing touch,
that pours blinding light of peace into wretched self loathing spirits.
Your soul beholding a core once rotting six feet under, comfortable in the bleak, horrifying Nethe,
she raised you up and compelled sun to invade your body, with a single kiss.
However the traps placed well before, rusting and moldy under her shine, jaggedly snapped.
On a quiet day, you can hear her retrace her steps with you.
Those traps were not mine,” she said.
“The darkness was not mine, she sighed.
“The angels whispering lies, also not mine,” she begged.
“I never snared you love, I had set you free,” crying in frustration.
“The oozing poisoned arrow burrowed in your neck’s artery, neither hers.
Your compliant refusal to pull it out commenced a chill in the air,
the wardrobe she packed was not for this weather. The arrow she pleaded tearfully to be pulled out,
had killed you both.
Father Time announced, the exit of the season of Romance.
A heart has closed and molded rotten, blue and white with the sands of time,
clogging itself in your arteries. With a scratch, the dirt under your nails scarred her very soul,
spidery veins of black and blue are written on her body, from the sepsis.
Her chest swelled with blood as you altered a lion into a house cat, she crawled into the blackened den.
A bitter gift that made my stomach drop, I uncomfortably settled in front row seats,
peering at the depths of her emotional torment revealed by perpetually pansophical .
Dormant anger restrains your wrists and ankles that sucked a helpless you into the devouring cave.
The metal bindings that felt like they dug into your skin but they were in fact slack, and unlocked.
Caught up in the moment of temporary damnation, the choice to slip out of the slack metal bindings,
passed quickly by your panicked eyes. Despite the ghastly dread, you were no captive.
Thusly, there was a way out of the imprisoning inferno to cool freedom.
In this cave is rubies and diamonds, floors that eerily glow of gold coins.
Detail carving in the antique frame work and banisters, primed for the richly.
A stunning cave, but in the corner reeks a foul stench of a corpse,
sitting in a make believe throne. A fresh mummy in the midst of a long wait for treasure,
when treasure lies all about, especially delicately place on his decaying ring finger.
A Santa hat sits on the brim of the weathering head of One Eyed Willie.
A leather eye patch is worn over his left eye,
embodying the ignorant blindness; one eyed silly.
There is a faint spirit beside the him, urging to stir the brittle bones to strut out of the cave,
featuring further grace than the hungry walking dead. Stretch the idle flesh and emerge!
The air stifled as silence hauntingly creeped in, sparking trembling in terror for the even minded.
My vision pans across a pretty crib built from the finest wood, that is suddenly sprouting thorns.
Shivering from the sight, I see a baby with a faint heart growing colder and grayer,
splinters caught in splotches of blood drying into a crusty brown hue.
The angelic beam the little cheeks wore dropped, the little lips parched as Sahara,
Mocking dark rings pervaded under the little russet colored eyes.
These pure optical organs exhibited the internal absence yet they stared darkly,
into eyes they resembled. The Nile runs dry as it spills over the woman’s cheeks,
she sobbed over the spited crib.
Her long painful wails could not echo enough in the gravel chamber,
for the corpse of baby daddy was lusting over the treasures he jealously guarded across the way.
Agony drives from her heart to the mind, and the mother chokes on the tears, “
ceaseless during the journey. As the wicked are always big mouthed,
they proclaimed the woman seeped poison stinging from her hands, feet, and kisses.
The prideful corrupt high on cynicism turns their nose to divine wisdom,
as logic hardly interrupts numbing fear of the innocent.
Belief distorted her mother’s vulnerable mind, and plaguing thoughts of thriving thorns blooming from
each nurturing caress ran amok.
Cobwebs glazed over the windows of her soul, merely hinting the cracking she endured,
that ran hidden from the surface of her belly to the feet she was too sick to stand on.
Moon rise and hysteria arise, moon sets and tears shed, longingly she stood over the infantile grave.
The father across the way
She could not have a proper burial alone.
One Eyed Willie sits still in the foreground in my peripheral vision,
but my gaze sharpens anxiously, centering on the alarming background.
A lone crooked smile resembling the one of Cheshire’s materializes from thin air,
and hovers for minutes behind the woman standing before the crib of thorns.
One may find themselves eyeing the craggy ivories that lined the grin,
as the dim illumination highlighted the rows of various points in the empty smile.
With a sigh the mouth blew lightly on wings sprouted from the woman’s back that
conspicuously wrapped around her tightly as a soothing cocoon.
Cream feathers wiggled lightly in the fetid gust as they were inappropriately admired.
A crystal mirror opposite the woman exposed a thick figure behind her,
it was coated with blistering pink skin, capped with straw hair, that donned the same frightening smile, now shallowly breathing.
Beady eyes bore holes into the feathered seraph before it.
It is quite appetizing, a grieving healer appearing as an vulnerable Siren.
Shaking lips indicated the mouth grew tire of foraging,
and the being in the mirror cleared it’s throat, impatiently.
The weepy widow held her breath, with a brief turn,
she bared a sad upturn of her lips towards the forced smile behind her.
The void in Cheshire Cat smile sent a chill up her spine.
and she quickly rebound her focal thought to family of carcasses;
a child lying in a plush bed, and a strung out pirate sitting in a throne of matchsticks.
The mirror rattled as the toothy crescent before it rotated 180 degrees.
The being in the reflection stuck its nose in the air as he grew more pink,
with condescension, bolstering a quiet tension that rippled across his cave,
alerting the near by animals of an impending earthquake.
At her most weakest, there was a quality about the woman
that plucked at the insecurities in this burn stain of man.
The floating mouth grits its teeth. Through the looking glass,
I witness the raising of deep pink meaty hand lightly passing its finger tips,
dancing across the lower back, and I needn’t another cue to reach an understanding;
the empty smile from earlier was one of a pig’s.
A slight whisper confirms my backstage commentary, the infamous cracking grin,
simply step one of an investment; as false gregariousness intends to rake in benefits later,
if he cheats the cards right.
A whiff of cherries is stolen from a waterfall of auburn curls with a wet snout.
Oh yeah, definitely a pig.
Betwixt the cave and the ship, it may seem hard to appear awake.
With a swift grunt, clammy sweltering hands roughly jerk at the fiery ringlets,
demanding attention. A surprised yelp escapes the angel’s throat,
as her head bends back with the unexpected force.
As lifeless One Eyed Willie’s one dying eye shifts its target from gold,
and how to get even more, the hands on the clock whirl faster.
With a scrutinizing eye on the discolored infant and a heavy grip on the angel’s hair,
the menacing lips inched closer to the anxious mother, and a raspiness gurgles,
from the back of his throat as he speaks warm breath on her ears.
“This baby isn’t even real,” he snarled.
The woman shook her head strongly disagreeing, looking towards the ceiling,
his hand around the hair tightened.
The ticks and tocks belie into lull, the view of what happens between
the seconds, minutes, hours, and days dissolve into a fogged haze.
Annoyed with her actual out speaking of truth he dubbed defiant,
he swiftly glanced at the raw cheeks stained with stinging tears.
Pointing to the child with mud stained fingers, he gritted his teeth
with his voice more rigid he repeated slowly, “That child is not real.”
Sands of time trickle through hourglasses and a single pirate body grows stiffer,
upon its trash heap of a throne, infested with matchsticks.
Echos of the imaginary voices that howled back and forth,
and the shadows in the room flickered quickly.
Her heart whisked into a quick beat as panic was instantly served.
Gratification buzzes a static into the air that swell dark shades across the cave.
The winged saint watches a condensed smog roll over to her feet,
while the plaguing songs of her panic attacks rumbled beneath the earth,
vibrating through the mineral pipes and stung like pinches,
as the shadow disappeared into a fine mist along her body,
leaving a looming presence.
Priorities can adjust here in this cavern but they are prone to snap back like rubber,
for rigamortis reveals the settled position of the mind.
Not exactly knowing what she is up against, she speaks the truth as she always will.
Her voice lowers, reflecting the pigman’s sternness,
“Yes,” her shaking breaths inhales deeply, “my baby is real.”
Quickly he hacks, and disdainfully spits tobacco juice near the cherubic curls,
and gives a hard look to the mother, a small defying smirk upon his lips.
A pinched face of silver and charcoal rolls from the shadows,
and stares at her with piercing marble eyes.
The angel of fire’s hair radiated as if in wind as she held for her patience,
Muted wheezing bares the only manifestation of life, but evidence towards cognizance,
and true living, has still not been found.
The reflection shared a Bacon Being attached to the smile, raising his foot slowly,
and a mocking gaping hole singing taunts from the Shadow woman,
a broken mother, moments to rage, holding her breath.
Thorns flick off like bullets, wood shatters into thousands of stakes,
a cradle flies crossways when the nerve of a cloven hoove pushes it down,
with an immense force.
A bizarre cackle falls out the speaking black hole of the shadow woman,
she repeats in a shrieking voice, clearly entertained, “that’s trash my dear.”
With a bloodcurdling scream, fire encroaches the weeping widow’s heart,
ejecting a bunched up first towards the hovering Cheshire grin,
that vanishes before contact.
The corpse stares ahead emptily, his jaw hanging wide. A riddled past tells the dried out tongue to thirst for vain prestige, the shrunken buds did not truly desire, nor could it recognize taste at this point.
The throbbing shame of the some supposed lack of masculinity was compensated,
for the pig of the man trying to bury the real treasure in a sudden rage,
amongst the sparkling jewels that drizzled in this baking cavern.
The shadow woman clawed her hand to rip chunks of cream colored feathers,
as the pig man hurled the broken angel to ground.
With the palm of her hands the angel caught herself,
sliding onto her stomach as the rubies skidded from under clammy hands.
The older woman twisted the wings in her grasp, as she was streaked with envy,
in total disbelief the broken angel could still look so beautiful on her knees.
The watered down fire angel gritted her teeth against the tears swelling up in her eyes, and jotted a kick behind her.
Holding her by the hair, the pig dragged the tearful mother from one corner of the cave,
to another, her tender golden flesh bruising against the roughened bricks of gold. The saint swung her arms at him.
Shadows dissolved and materialized by the healer’s ears,
screamed from different angles decibels too high,
that the saint’s hands could not protect her eardrums.
“Whore, How could you think you were good enough?. Lazy slut!”
The mother peeked at the still pirate corpse as she writhed in pain.
One Eyed Willie kept his eyes on the prize.
The pig’s jaw clenched angrily, but the swagger returned in his gait,
and the pig of a man hauled the shivering angel by the ankles over tiny puddles of flames
peeking through gold coins that encrusted the floor,
she uttered a sudden loud cry for her pirate, arching her back.
A stripe of hot smog smacked against her cheek, “Whore!”
Salmon tinted man violently gripped the back of her neck,
pulling her onto her feet for he could not miss an opportunity to mentally photograph her beautiful face swollen face with burn marks, representing his dominance.
The angel, feeling betrayed shot a look to the throne sitter,
and stared back at the pig with pride, spitting out saliva tinged with the taste of blood
into his direction.
With a deep breath, the Being sans a lone scornful smile vanished. Within a couple of seconds,
our solitary warrior for Love’s head is jerked back and insistently struck hard against a rock,
forced by her shoulders, against a table.
The shadows in the room swirl in to be a participating audience, slapping her with darkness.
Dying in the golden cave, One eyed Silly simply hungering in his self imprisonment.
A raspy voice that smelled of petruid tickled her nose, and taunted her.
“I thought you enjoyed martial arts, do not tell me this is all you got.”
With a grab to her ass cheeks, his cracking voiced hissed, “let me see what you got.”
With bound wrists, the angel felt the bacon presence hoover from behind her,
And she puled a few moves with her legs alone, tripping the unseeable being,
and kicking the man in the throat on his fall.
A gray matter grabbed her by the wings and dragged against the jagged table,
As a condescending yelling loudly bounces back and forth in the cave,
awakening the bats that screeched, flying out into the cool dead of night.
“You see, gullible boy! The baby wasn’t even real. She tricked you!”
The widow showed the fight the man asked for, but as he only wanted to show off
he was intensely displeased with her talent in kung fu,
for if his son was to have a better woman that him, he had fantasies to desecrate the wife,
but there was no win for the slimy pig, used to rolling around in mud.
“Always imagining things, she was trying to trap you!”
Curling his fleshy hands around the delicate neck pleading wife calling out for her husband,
he smashes her head into the rock table and yelled for her to shut up,
his nails digging in hard enough to leave little bloody moons.
He gives a look to the mummy, his cold eyes hard enough to plant narcissistic injury in the heart,
the look was demanding submission for he did not raise his son to assert himself,
and he better not start.
“We’re here to to protect you,” he said sternly shoving the dying pirate’s wife into the table,
jeering at her wincing face.
The corpse one eye blinks away determined for the spoils though he was losing focus,
unaware that each second he ignores the battle,
he is killing everything everything he should be fighting for.
Murder by submission.
The shadow of a woman laughs in the background,
amused to see she could be called a woman once more.
Though this woman parched the pirates withering spirit, and planted tendrils at his feet,
the decaying ears could not hear the angel’s screams.
The earthly demons beat on her, determined to bruise and maim every inch of her tender flesh.
The shadow woman planted her foot on the angel’s back,
and with a rough sickening crack she jerked her wings, fracturing them,
sprouting from the open flesh upon her blood strained feathers, were snowy bones;
a skeleton from her former glory.
“We are one!” the angel cries out, “Help me!”
A quick jab of a knife for daring to shout out.
Choking on her blubbering tears, “Drop your gilded trash and come to my aid!”
“We are one!”
Was this family to be haunted with another death count in this tavern covered with ungodly fruit?
Will it be a screaming demand, or perhaps a whispering word that will lunge the cadaver into defense?
The chalky charcoal of a woman plucks a matchstick
from the self proclaimed throne of the corpse and strikes it against her tongue,
igniting a flame of wrath.
The pig holds down the woman, his eyes sparkling with delight
as the match is held beneath the bottom layers of one wing.
The eerie mouth smiles in wicked glee, blowing the flames to expand.
Scent of scorch fills the cave as the angel’s busted lip and bloodied mouth,
growls a low moan that roars into a howling sob as the flames sear through her wounds,
flesh off her back begins to drop onto the table.
Her wrists are unbound and she slides off the bouldered table,
and falls weak upon the rubied floor, a heap of tears and blood.
“She’s only using you!” said the possessive fog, purring in the light of the flame.
“She never loved you… you think she would love you?” retorts the pig.
“If she honestly did, she would have a real baby.”
“I love you, I want you” the tattered healer wails out to rocky abyss,
With trembling lips, “Not these idols, I love you!”
One Eyed Willie, do not close your eyes to the unjustified brutality.
As a pure gentle spirit, your witty wife have showered you with empathy throughout the years.
One Eyed Willie, do not turn your head away from the slick torture,
damning this compassionate yet analytic mind that has rained endless mercy,
and love deeper than Mariana’s Trench in the Pacific rolled it’s tides into your very soul!
The pig boots hooves into the angel’s stomach, and with a cringe worthy oink,
it spits upon her face. The shadow gossiped to the varying shades of her victim’s lack of value,
and the gossipers began to chant lies upon the downtrodden woman.
With a few stomps, the diamonds, rubies, and gold coins shifted on the floor,
and rusted barbed hooks surfaced and the shades collected the thousands of them,
like children merrily tossing found seashells into a beach bag.
The tan leathered corpse shrieks in horror, his head snapping towards the scene of crime,
his eyeball rolls around his skull, but settle back into it’s flesh ridden socket.
An arctic blue iris paired with a film covered pupil stares at emeralds on the floor,
as it’s owner burrows down anxiety; and settles with his usual go to excuse -griping tightly onto his crutch.
“Roar!,” The maimed earth angel demanded of the corpse, gagging on liquid tinged with red.
“These woes are not loyal,” another pig kick flies to her stomach. “Roar my love!”
Her hand is grasped and her fingers spread out, a presence quickly eyeing the palm of her hand,
before digging a corroded hook into it.
A gray mist wraps around her throat and presses into her soft flesh,
A steaming pink snout inches away from her face, screams at her to shut up,
strings of thick spit flies out his mouth and over her black and blue grimace.
A brooding energy resembling the calm before a storm,
loomed over the pirate and his self-proclaimed throne, his rolls to witness the offense beyond bullying.
The pig circled his yearly sacrifice to feed his ego and need to be in control,
as the shadow sneered, striking another match that ignited even larger,
the whole cave cast with the color orange.
“Now the thing is, you oinking lazy whore, we know you don’t love him.”
The smog danced around her throat, becoming more personal than her reclusive spirit.
“She is obviously using you,” the dust hissed towards the pirate,
“face down in the rubies, she couldn’t bother hide her love for them.”
The pig mutters, “how could anyone love him?”
as throws a match onto the angel’s bare wings, who arches her back in anguish.
“That’s not true,” the angel screams, lifting her throbbing head to face the corpse.
Another rusty hook slowly pierces her other palm, and she shakes her head crying.
Desperately trying to be strong, desperately in need of her husband.
“You couldn’t honestly be a good wife, you are poison, shit, you would make him miserable.”
A matchstick swiped off the DIY throne constructed with trash, was again ignited,
and tossed onto the angels back, into the open wound of deception placed by them,
that tickled her insecurities, no doubt.
The dead pirate’s eyebrows shot up and he curled his crumbling hands into a fist,
there was an aching in the depths of his chest that panged a lump in his dusty throat.
The hoarse voice could not speak up, and the corpse cleared his throat,
a few black widows crawled out of his mouth, as they nested there during the idleness.
The eight legged pets flew towards the ceiling and the thread of web in the midst of flame.
“Listen to us, we know who is best for you,” whispered the shadow.
“She’s not good enough for you,” the pig faked a smile.
Fire broke out on the angels right wing.
“I mean, look at her,” the shadow nodded to the victim, whose tears ran dry,
as agony spread through her body, a forest wildfire on her back.
“She doesn’t even work hard enough,” the shadow finished.
“We know better,” the smile jaggedly wore a taunting finish against the blazing glow.
A rush of blood chugged through the flaky flesh, and the bones ratted.
Blackening out, she focused on the small body across the way,
apologetic that she couldn’t protect it. Her hair matching her glowing body,
The angel prepared to die, humming a haggard lullaby for she was to reunite her child.
The minute she would she promised, peace making,
for that would be her only priority for the gurgling cherub.
The accusations wore heavily onto her soul, and the knowing of being abandoned
was far too painful to tolerate. She always put her mate first.
“The minute you announced to us you married, we said it wouldn’t last.”
The blitz of heat blurred the sound of the oinks and hisses.
“Well look at her honey, leaving blood and flesh all over the floor…
It’s clear she won’t be staying here long.” the couple’s laugh echoed in their homely den.
The pirate on the throne of rubbish blinked with alarm, balanced onto his feet,
and let gravity do the rest. Knees were wobbling, hips did it’s cracking,
and the tight muscles in his lower back followed through gratefully.
The mummy thought he forgotten how to walk, but within seconds he could have put a middle aged power walking mom to shame. .
The pig and the shadow startled to see the leathery figure approach through the flames,
and the shadow hid behind the husky hog.
The living dead stood before the burning angel,
checking out the blazing tips of the fire flirt with the ceiling.
Putting the retired lungs back to work, the pirate blew out the fire with a gust of wind,
slightly roasting the pig while the shadow left in hiding.
The chanting of gossip vocalized from the surrounding shadows stopped ,
as they disappeared with the light. When the image of his bullied naked bloodied wife gazed his sight,
the pirate’s knees buckled and sweat returned to his forehead.
The corner of the wife’s lips faintly upturned,
and she internally rejoiced for she was no longer a widow.
Tears welled to the mummies eyes, unapologetic featuring a sweet deep relief she’s still alive.
But then again, he married no wimp.
A smog raised up and pounded against the saint’s back,
the shadow woman using her heels to pin her down.
Bitterly in vain attempting to shred every exposed flesh on bone of the wings.
The crumbling bits on the decaying mummy, grew tighter into the flesh,
as he began to swing his arms, clawing at the murders.
As he dug his teeth into the pig, his body scabbed over any disintegration,
a violent revival is number in the book of epics.
The shadow wrangled the pirates wrists and ankles,
a kick of the hind leg’s and the pig rammed it’s head into the living corpse’s stomach.
The mummy flew back onto it’s right hip and dropped his body, limp on the floor,
by an uncovered pool of flame bedazzled with diamonds, hooks, and bits of rubbish.
As a hovering mouth again, the pig roared a dark laughter, stomping it’s feet in disbelief.
“He thought he could -” the laugh choked on a few giggles,
then after a clearing of the throat, grew stern over a tense silence, the cave dropping in temperature.
The pirate grasped at the coins to secure himself getting up, but it noisily slid from beneath his hands.
“Stay down, asshole.” Light steps showed the eerie smile hovering closer, a dark presence behind him.
“You think you can claw at us, and still get our spoils?” the pig said quietly,
yet it was booming against the only sounds, flickers of the random flames,
and the soft wheezing of the agonizing angel.
“Tell me, will anyone like you if you can’t provide?” oinks the hovering mouth.
“Would you be worth anything to the world without us?” the untraceable shadow woman, asked.
Her husband repeated, and the mummy looked up from the scalding glittering floor.
“The whore is no different.. see now she is clawing to pocket your emeralds.”
The pirate’s sight turned to his wife, desperate to be closer to her husband,
almost dragging herself, blood leaking onto the jewels.
More trash surfaced through the sifting of valuables, and the angel managed to chuckle to herself,
adding that rubbish was the foundation beneath the glittering floor.
Tiring she rested, her face by another flame puddle. She blew it out.
Meanwhile, the breathing corpse winced,
the anxiety motors began to whir in his chest again,
Could he be loved without a fancy house?
The wife looked up tenderly immediately forgiving the betrayal instantly. Praying God would smile and he would remember the most important lesson in life;
a house without love, not matter how significant is not treasure, it is but mere kindling.
His breathing becomes more shallow,
he wondered who he was without jewels and land to call his own.
If he only knew, the spiritually royals are the one buried with gold,
for earthly treasure really only belonged to Mother Nature, alone.
Knitting his eyebrows, the pirate propped himself on his hands,
his stomach flipping with shushed hysteria. He entertained,
How could you prove your worth if you have nothing to brag about?
But the only ones who would care are the souls tanged with voids,
guarding the dung heap of a cave.
What was the meaning of it all? Of life?
The pirate lingers a look to the angel, pulp on the floor.
” Honey, remember the looking glass message and the Red book in the blue pillow.” the bloody angel coughed. “You will know who truly loves you. Their murderous hatred is poison.”
The sweltering man points to the make believe throne he once pretended was so great,
“why don’t you get back into your throne, buddy?” he said meaning,
‘sit back down and continue to hurl telepathic insults to the woman
who would have drank bleach to protect you.
The smile widens, showing it’s teeth.
The pirate stood, web threads flowing in the air,
against the moonlight made him look ethereal, and hauntingly beautiful.
The pig and shadow curled together in shock of the corpse’s strength,
and a torrent of words flowed out of him in her defense.
The pig man took control of him with a leer and the startled pirate found himself throwing a shiny black rock at his weeping bride. His anxiety, king once more, gave up the ghost and disappeared.
My friend, you are the king of fools by ever listening to those lies. Gold digger?
Using you for a pittance? Their machinations make me laugh.
Only a child would listen to such rubbish. You are a man.
You know better than to listen to murderous slander against such a pure spirit.
We both know our angel gave the coat off her body to any soul in need.
How could a man of such immense knowledge and logic
fall for this and still remain to this day in oblivion in this delusion of imprisonment?
Life is so temporal. Every day you sit in your sty, you risk losing her.
I found our angel broken, curled up,
trying unsuccessfully to heal her bright blue spirit,
that is decaying to a muddy grey.
“You cry yet?”
“I want to.”
One similarity you and your angel obtain; the two of you both love, well, you.
The maimed angel has since mended from the attack
upon her fiery character, gentle spirit, and love of her life.
She lays her head upon my lap, her feathers growing back, thick and more glorious than ever.
As she heals, she whispers to me a tale of a man,
snared by a drive to prove his worth through what he does instead of who he is,
running a hamster wheel, desiring to erase a void by activities, instead of watering the plant of self.
It is a cesspool to fall into, my friend, as you will never able to prove worth you thirst towards,
for subjective standards dance through fickle humanity.
One in love for what you do only bares toxic affection.
The value of the conditional lover is nothing higher than the rubbish
in the scalding cave guarded by the demented, and nothing to invest time for.
Your death is not hers to keep,
This path has come to make you hollow.
With my feet on the ground and my head in the clouds,
I speak among earth walkers and doves
I hear whispers of a thoughtful husband with much courage,
his belly full of healing fire, intuitive shoulders wearing a good head of integrity,
words tinged with harsh discipline of wisdom,
were soften by gentle eyes, crinkled with compassion.
This man intends not to distress the earth angel, the doves and I know.
It is only the flaws he clutches to is what lead him to first degree of despair.
Anxiety now your shelter, fear, your bread and water,
a four post bed caving into with an over ego,
the mattress only large enough for greed, and I wonder where you lay to sleep.
Why must you only focus upon what you lack?
The poor prioritizing had gave you a blind eye towards
a straw haired man with deep pink skin, that brutalized your true worth and health..
In the dark, you grasp at straws, nooks, and crannies in search for a house,
that wears a foundation for only a kindling.
A house without love in every corner is no treasure,
cottage, condo, or mansion could never be as magnificent.
Is this the purpose of your life; living long years of unwavering detest,
to shower upon the undeserving?
A rippling affect, the energies have bounced off,
I pray you will not be rooted into rejection, awake to the toxicity your younger self knew.
The bricks of burden have fallen upon your heavy shoulders,
but will you stay lie underneath the rubble – denying yourself as a person,
that once burned you in the past.
Burning, oh burning, such great death. A pleasant theme in this matter of destruction,
this winter season.
Arouse your emotional hibernation to the sweet scent of revival
for you are suffering from a delusion that snows endless winters in your mind.
An imaginary madness entertained by someone who does not notice,
his past is simply a story, not wires strung from his joints,
puppeteering all his moves. There is no binding control over him,
omitting the abiding magnetism of the angel he mouths I love you to
every night through a pixelated screen.
The both of you were one under the eyes of the only one who mattered,
and yet you cut her down to please the ones who were never there for you, when it truly counted.
Once wise and balanced, you titled your world forcing summer to the old ways of winter,
you warmed your abode with secrets and lies roasting in an open fire,
as demons nipping at your nose, charity prancing through smoke and mirrors,
erecting a wolf puppet to cope with your anxiety and emotions bubbling,
about to over flow.
But no one is entertained and fooled by this substance,
as I witness you at night shaking a leg, a rabid animal unable to sleep.
It is only then she tells me that you were never a wolf at heart,
but a lion in the spirit that alas has not been embraced.
The key to soothing peace and a riveting abundance of joy is
to be thankful in every circumstance, for the little things
rather than focusing in the lack, demanding a perfection that cannot be reached in this realm,
not through you and not through striving.
You will still reach your pinnacle buckling into momentary bliss,
and finding appreciation in the minute blessings,
you will only reach there in much better health.
Do you desire to be enslaved by the demonic duo,
sitting on a matchstick throne being fed lies,
sacrificing your soul in bits in a trash furnace.
Forge your own path? Truly great men heed a call to adventure.
Not too long ago you cherished the story, and admired King David,
It is not too late, and never will be, to live and speak faith that trembles souls,
and lead with a courageous heart to follow the leading of spirit.
A badge of genuine kindness tenderly anoints your soul.
Awaiting, you have reached your appointment of the cosmic bitch slap
you desperately needed, my friend, as you distrustfully hide out
as you grown hooves like a triceratops, and it’s not a cute look.
Do not leave the thought that only a man of great power,
a heart stitched together with blankets of compassion,
and genuine beauty would be chosen by the Eternal to be paired
with our earth angel. I wish you are brave enough
to yank the arrow oozing with poison out and swallow the bittersweet antidote.
Humbling yourself, swallowing your fear, and trusting your other half not to scorn,
for I have another tale to weave into your well being.
Angels are at your shoulders but the wicked jabs you in the sides with their pointy elbows,
but the envelop entrenches the answers you need, as they are worth your existence.
You were born not too long ago but only now you will bellow,
like a gentle giant you are, with hammered down grounded feet,
with a great fiery lioness purring as she circles between them.
Balance yourself, the two redheads with the wild child curls
basking their faces like manes are climbing you like a jungle gym.
In an enchanted garden rich with nature’s laughter,.
Bunnies frolic, birds whistle, and butterflies enrapture the curls radiating more than sunshine.
A pond pools an image that does not reflect this earthly land, but reveals a kingdom of the unseen.
Sighing, Quasimodo chimes the expectation of giving hell,
that has been roasting a pit into his chest for 30 years for the festivities he beckoned
has never been celebrated for him.
Shattered mirrors were scattered in his bell tower
for he only saw reflecing hallucinations of a hideous monster.
With a call on his watch, the shadows submerged upon his face,
and a draft entrenches upon the working galaxy between his ears.
The bell rings and gongs, sunrise and sunset, and seasons pass
until a sweet smell of daffodils and honeybees entered the girthly emptiness.
Queen of Gypsies catlike grace and mischief play elevates the anxious heart to the heavens.
Fiery, commanding, and passionate she acknowledges the sunrises in emotional night walkers,
she witnesses the good in rot, animates the decomposing,
and the rue of the monster of Frankenstein never ends up theirs.
And now the purring dame .. ,
whispering flames inferno into the timid embers of his sodden heart.
His true form emerges as he playfully becomes best friend with the fanged beast,
finally safe to remove his wooden mask and share an incandescent smile,
and rich laughter in peace, not once riddled with alarming time. (
The Gypsy Queen sighed for he was the most loving, passionate man she has ever known.
The house was not a home but pollen of cats tickle the nose, he sneezes.
A warm hand dishes for the parched soul, and a spark bursts in the void like a big bang,
and ripples into a thousand stars; nothing into everything, coal into diamonds,
and now when the timely bell rings, it sings. The sun rises on Quasimodo face.
He dances with deep regret due to the ending of the song.
Without needing to raise her voice, the empress claps her hand,
demanding that the festivities has only began for this shall be the festival
to make up 30 years of festivals lost. Her call stirred waves upon the blue tender sea,
light breaks upon the pier, as the sun ruses above the ocean the wind hows.
Rise up and damn the defiant as a house is not a home until your whole soul is present.
Do not ignite the boats, Alexander, for she beacons.
The same person who stared into the watery horizon looks more deeply into the pond,
frightened by the ugly reflection of his face he was eyeing, Quasimodo stares back.
But a soft, cream colored hand warmly caresses his neck
and strawberry lips reaches over to kiss his cheek. And to kiss his cheek again.
The Queen of Gypsy’s lips wander slowly, her light breathing tickles his nervous yet pleading lips,
and she kisses him once again, the lips never disconnecting.
Fearless, bold, powerful; the spirit inside him never roared this loudly,
Samson willingly shorn his name, and abdicated his powers.
The need to shape-shift was no longer the man’s as he was enough with her, just as he was.
The sensuously interlocked couple slowly stand on their feet.
A glowing bird pool radiates in the garden, as the winged messengers whistle as they bathe.
Sticky fingers curl around the brim as curious as watch the doves,
the red headed children break into a water fight,
laughing as they splash one another with the golden glistening waters.
They spot a jagged, discolored rock and comment on it, before their
widening blue eyes, the rock evolves into a beautiful mineral,
sun rays pierce and project a rainbow against the garden.
The fiery twins ran off to show their mother,
and they tossed into her cream colored hands when she turned around.
She sighs woefully as it is a diamond with flints of gold,
from an amber thread that was seering it before.
A gentle giant holds a bouquet of pink and white flowers to the earth angel decked in all white,
behind him in this magical garden,
flowers bloom as he approaches her.
The rays of the sun bask upon her eyelashes, her lips glow, and her skin glistens.
The whistling birds gossip around the block,
The butterflies play with their food, dancing on petals,
the bunnies kiss as they come and go,
sweet honey drips from a beehive
and balloons descend from the heavens and into freckled hands,
sticky with jelly, dirt, marker ink,
and probably snot.
As the children with fire hair chase about,
with a cat and a dog,
and a parrot sings swearwords in the background,
the infamous pair brace one another again,
and begin to kiss again, with no interruptions,
as the earth angel holds the diamond to her chest.
Love is not about ego, nor can it be earned.
As a witness to this tragedy, this enduring saga could go for records,
with pages that could go on for miles, forever enchanting many generations of world ruling empires.
I have been honored to relay this message from the only one to trust.
I dance under the moon but I do not work for the stars and the varying energies in the galaxy,
trust when I say to you Quasi, that you are tattooed on her heart.
The fever of pain she was forced to sweat out could not smear the ink.
Be a man enough to stand up for it, through every travesty it’s endured.
As we know you are the only one to capture the vivacious passion she dwells in,
so the fire in her spirit is not one to be feared.
If she could see you now, she would drag you away,
and not into a river with a brick tied to your body.
The beaver dam would break upon her cheeks,
and the months of pain would be laughed in an instant.
One’s intending to slain you with disrespect could not cross her guarding of you,
and that is why she only allowed her most trusted and wise advisers to speak to your heart.
Her photo is below.
Look at this woman, she is so beautiful she holds her own next to Princess Dita herself.