His Poison

Flowers wilting by this window
For the haze that blocks the sun
Looming grayly and thick in the air
Let it build upon itself.
As it winds and twists and coils
The serpent kills the flowers.

Picture peeling upon this canvas
Every day a little farther. . .
Streaks,crimson, fall 'pon the floor
Staining crudely taintless marble
To reveal its true resolve,
The serpent paints this atrocity.

Words stumble from this pencil
For the mind seems misused
Can not grasp to its dreams
So they trade farther away.
Let them weave into a poem
So his curse may be seen
The serpent poisons his mind.

Days grow on so slowly
As fates wear away these things
In his mind all is perfect
Not betrayed to reality,
Yet things grow heavy
So he grows weary,
Lost in all that he sees.

Facing what he dreams. . . .

A hand draws through
The mist, and stops
Not before the sun.
Flaming lights can not sear
Nor scorch to wound it
Upon marble let it rest
To heal the broken crimson.

Pencil clatters to the table
Painting falls from the wall
The hand leaves with the crimson
The flowers die upon themselves
Serpent's poison from his mind. . . .

Looking for that forgotten nightmare,
Forcing his hand to new words.
He struggles to live as he breathes,
Listening to, that haunting lullaby.

Over time the canvas glistened
With a new set of colours,
As the flowers grow 'neathe the window
By the sun's lovely shine.
Morning dew upon the window
Its shadows rest upon his cheek
As his hand is his pillow
And he lets himself
Into world of dream. . . .

He ponders the colour of the night.

Sanguine breathes grace
Engulfing in wondrous embrace
Taking him upon its seas
Gifted anew unto himself
A mind unpoisoned could see
The ghosting love before his eyes.

Wrapping itself within him
Coiling, Twisting, Entwining
Molding, to his frame
Seduced by these old sins
Serpent takes him in again.

Accursed light of lies
Bringing upon him cold dawn
To sacrifice truths by it all
Though those lies speak out revealing~
Truths so divine. . . .

Ponder upon his plight
Watching dances clearly now
As reality becomes part of him
Seeing now what forlorned his heart.
So drawn forth was his anguish
for wanting was never, no never~
Quite enough.

So waiting in his mind
Though His poison alters
Every thought passing through
Cursed he is by himself
Yet, he dwells so alone
Unknown what therein to do
No one left to save him from himself.

Still through patience he sits
In that old state, though. . . .
Something be altered within,
AS that painting sits upon the canvas
Melting so slowly, yet ne'er falling
Flowers sitting in secret life,
Whispering, their secret lullaby.
As the pencil speaks so softly
Soul outpouring in unfathomed darkness
To draw within, beneath that poison
A taintless light shines upon the marble.