Poetry: Final collection

'The Marilyn'- Neon Queen

I watch

The heavy curtains cloaking dull eyes,

when unveiled to a golden throne,

they regain their remarkable brilliance.

I feel

Swift hands still curiously cold

from devoted palms pressed firmly

in prayer on a shattered floor.

I know

All the familiar metaphors for hurt

drawn out by a quick moving hand

disguised with a masterful technique.

I fear

That the disjointed scraps of color

manifest a kingdom lost in ruin;

a haunting worship to the Neon Queen.

Our Trip

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.

Slide

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.

Ephemeral conquest

obsession for a second-hand process,

the records had grown out of date.

Successful Foreshadowing

This boy has been broken.

Left intimidated by the selfish, distracted desertion

he knows,

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.