'The Marilyn'- Neon Queen
The heavy curtains cloaking dull eyes,
when unveiled to a golden throne,
they regain their remarkable brilliance.
Swift hands still curiously cold
from devoted palms pressed firmly
in prayer on a shattered floor.
All the familiar metaphors for hurt
drawn out by a quick moving hand
disguised with a masterful technique.
That the disjointed scraps of color
manifest a kingdom lost in ruin;
a haunting worship to the Neon Queen.
Four corners of what was once my bed
became a safe zone
feet cannot touch the floor,
and the door must stay shut.
Curiously cold as we curled over
you ran your fingers
in the glistening creases on my skin.
Then we became mesmerized
by the colors
hiding in the black and white photographs.
I told you
that your hand looked frightened, and
we watched the sunrise
lying backward on that bed
silently waiting in fear
for it all to mean so much less
in the morning.
With clear hearing
I composed and waited,
but decided it was nothing.
With one brush for each color,
just another discarded palimpsest
in undiscovered shades of blue.
obsession for a second-hand process,
the records had grown out of date.
This boy has been broken.
Left intimidated by the selfish, distracted desertion
this place is not home.
Where anonymous figures wander in disconnect
and giving fistfuls of smiles
he always walks home empty handed.
And I can feel his trembling heart rattling my bones
as the salty streaks drip down
from tiny squared reflections of myself
I feel helpless in thinking
that this boy is broken.