Poetic Death

Glorious demon am I, as here I sit,

writing poetry in blood, words abound,

in nightmarish red-brown syllables.

Were those cracks always there,

those cracks in my soul.

I try to remember where they began.

Were they always there, sitting just

centimeters from the surface of what

was perceived  to be a sane mind.

From whence came the graceful

contamination,  that has lured me

to my spectacular insanity.

I tried to tell them, I murder people in

my mind, in my dreams, in my heart.

No one could see the spider lines in my

soul for they saw my innocense in the

deep sepia of my eyes, though they

were delightfully disquieting.

I smile as I think of being sequestered

in the arms of beautiful death.

Evil wears a smile sometimes, but

I suppose it's a product of hindsight,

for they refused to acknowledge the

resplendent castrophe that was my makeup.

Oh, how warm to these delicate fingers

the thick masses of liquid feel.

"Don't cry my sweet, although tears

of blood becomes you, such a lovely

affliction upon the breast that suckled

life into these now distraught bones.

I wear a smile, but my thoughts are

screaming as spindly cobwebs muddle

my thoughts, a magnificent deprivation,

occurring as something evil across my pysche

creeps, rendering me to lie eternally in an

aesthetic grave, as to me murder I found beauty.

"Don't cry, daddy, she doesn't know she's

dead, she didn't suffer, besides suffering

is only the beginning, and death is not the

worst thing to fear, for I lived in fear of her."

Dance with me, the way you danced with her.

I can dance as well as her now, the dance of death.

You and those trembling prayers at midnight,

those wasteful invocations, asking that I be spared

of this scintallating mess as any child should be.

I prayed too, but God didn't hear, but Satan did.

Satan doesn't take a vacation, so he heard my prayer.

He answered as he saw me tracing shadows in the moonlight.

You thought I was mad, but I saw them, the maniacal clowns,

as they danced and sang those deliciously dark lullabies.

Don't fret, my madness is a beautiful thing,

the last thing she left me with, true poetry.

It's an age old art to take something from

your mind and watch it take form and each

time I laid nude beside her hoping for comfort

and something darker prevailed, the form grew.

It was funny how she begged though she never

heard my ultimate pleas, while my mind screamed

for release.

From begging to bleeding, taking her unholy desires,

to the abyss of the hell that I tried to strive in.

I tried to tell, but it was deep, the love, the hate.

She would laugh when I cried, reveling in depravity,

as if it was her birthright and I was born to sate it.

I stopped crying daddy, because Cassie is older now,

and the cracks have begun for her, and that took

away all other options.

Forgive for my madness, I embraced its freedom and

it brought me in her confines where she wanted me.

It's poetry, poetic justice, and as my body expires,

know that I died long ago, by the hands that gave

me birth, but I go in madness knowing her death

was poetic.

MARJORIE JOYCE LESLIE

07/18/09