Rage

Every obsessed thought

is really a jangled

maudlin of entities

and gratifications—

Perhaps also a silver thread…

of heartbeats and the

wringing of hands,

And foreheads and palms

Of esoteric fantasies

When you touch my skin,

Do you hear the murmurings of

an evanescent song?

I hear you labouring

to possess the

concept of me—

Kindling broken visages

With an aura—

—of a smile—

Is an art in itself,

a mixture of smooth scented pinheads,

sharp against the trope of foreheads,

Covered with scars

—my nails painting your skin—

In a ramble of vermilions

smeared over me-

I hear the envy of

the daemons

Who have inhabited and mortgaged,

And every feeling,

and every sigh-

Bundle up in her long tresses

In a lie in a truth,

there lies a lie again

And again and again

The shrieks enfold,

Where the roaring ceases

Caverns open and sleep in

vacuumed recesses

Menanger lurks,

uncontrollable

Seething to fulfill her rage.