the undesirables

Drone of the melancholic
Do kickstart the lull of the day
Let your decrepit fingers circle
The unfathomable abyss

Sway of the blasphemer
Poison that worldly tongue of yours
Serenade the wise with their stakes
In a game of obtuse charades

Lure of the nefarious
Hasten the drift, flog the weary
Denounce the eyes of innocence
As they're purified in dense flames

Kiss of the pariah
Embrace the abandoned stab wounds
Etch the love on a cynic's wan back
Till he bleeds a permanent scar

Dance of the falsifiers
Weave your condescending fabric
Delight in their wide-eyed naivety
For they drown in the floods of half-truth's

Flight of the insane
The grounded are locked in their cages
Seek to free the far-fetched fantasies
From those who wave their callous whips

oh! do desire the undesirables

the stolen verse part I

(The poem is pregnant with truth, and truth doesn't rhyme often, does it.)

These hands don't glisten
when reflection shines
with shards of cruelty
that had been left behind
by the most stubborn thorns -
a rose that is human flesh
they soften with time into pearls.
Not a wonder that they roll off his grip.

These hands don't impress
cracked like wrinkles on a woman's skin
with a curved and deep crevice
that runs through both upturned palms
and shape themselves into the smile
of the inamorato.
i think it is you.

Clairvoyancce is not my game
false security breaks with shame
but these hands are busy, building
a diorama of the empire
of the last fallen queen.
The face that sunk a thousand ships
has a successor to her name.
She sits there with red satin
overflowing the arms of the throne.

Meanwhile she hangs her lingerie
blood red brassieres on the line
swollen with the august gale
it dulls into deep maroon.
She laments her shame into contempt
and looks for the stolen verse.

The lacuna in your gospel
is the title of my tale
the uninked destiny you hoped to compose
robbed and ghostwritten by these hands.
Fury, learn the prints by heart
and hunt them down
the hands that cascade the storm
in the creeks of your open wound
and crash the story not yet spoken
onto the shore of a wordless island.