When your fragmented words descended off your slurred tongue and fell onto my lap, I existed in a moment of reverence. You play a sagacious game of charades as all your lovers fail to establish the long lost virtues of your veiled infernal thoughts. No warnings were shed, for warnings were mercy, and mercy was weakness. The euphony had been ripped apart without a second thought, for the residuum of your words was as insipid as the blood which had arisen on the piers of your skin. For days on the end, I had stravaiged the haunted grounds of the cemetery, which you had envisioned to be a garden. The flowers which stripped themselves bare on the ground existed in the company of barren soil and withered at the crack of dawn. You ran the petals of these very flowers through my cracked lips and down to nature's restrictions. Quite astutely, you had plotted this façade of repressed hope, and void anamnesis. I handed my being over to you as I walked a path of your burning desire, with your callous hands blindfolding me. I acceded to the peril, I acceded to the unknown; to the adrenaline coursing through my veins. How would I have known that you dipped and crafted your sacrifice as a bundle of archaic bane, and fed it to me with antique vows? I may forget, but it never will. It'll always be there. Watching. Weeping. Waning moon.
YOU ARE READING
VEIL'D MELANCHOLY.
PoetryNeither salt nor sugar settles on your tongue. Only this blood of mine does. Neither I nor she fills up your heart. Only these tears of mine do. [POETRY/PROSE]
