If I stretch my fish net stockings
and wrap them [tightly] round my
reckless thoughts
would tragic hopes of you
ooze through diamond gaps
like decaying flesh?
Would it matter,
if the glossy epitaph
smeared across my gravestone,
neon, in an alter-world
of broken promises and heavy
aromatic drifts of
dying delusions of love,
never existed?
And amongst fragmented screams,
in just one lucid moment,
I recall the fragrant flower of
eternal love you gave to me,
~so beautiful~
and true in it’s colour.
But blossoms,
especially blossoms
spiked with lies,
wilt easily under the pressure
of a hot house existence.
As shattered lives drift
like homeless raindrops
through a poisoned cloud,
the Seer sits in a corner,
and I lose myself between
the torn pages of a surreal comedy
and flat-packed dreams
waiting to be ignited
by the night.
I recoil my tattered hopes
[emetics] and shove them
hard, down my throat,
and the Seer -
he just smiles
in silence.
Honorable mention
Bronze trophy winner
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