Murdered HeartAs you feel the steel on skin,
As you feel the blood within,
As you fall into the dark,
As you hear the demons hark.
Body rotting to the bone,
Slowly rotting to the soul,
Lay there in blood stained grass,
Surrounded by the broken glass.
Reflection gleaming from all around,
Wife on-looking with a frown,
You hear her cry,
You hear her scream,
Then your mind begins to drown.
So let your breath slowly go,
Feel the heavy ungodly throes,
As you're pulled by the undertow,
As you succumb to the flow.
Scratch and claw,
Push and scream,
It means nothing,
At a murder scene.
Lay and die,
Drift and dream,
Hear the cries,
Dead at the seams.
THE WOMAN IN THE WINDOWMy god let me not think on her now!
Not after these past twenty years.
Torment and torture from so long ago,
my mind could not bear it again...
I was just eleven then, just a young boy,
and every morning at 4 am
I walked the sidewalks throwing newspapers;
in the dark of early morning...
One house had a beautiful bay window,
decorated with lace curtains;
at its center I saw a rocking chair,
sitting it it was a woman...
I could see she was old by her grey hair.
She waved at me, and I would wave back,
smiling I would continue on my way;
and so this went on for many weeks...
There was one morning when she did not wave,
but motioned for me to come closer.
Hesitant I drew nearer to the window,
I was frozen by what I saw...
Her skin was the color of ashen grey,
with eyes devoid of any life.
I could see her struggling to move her lips,
she pressed her hand against the window...
Her mouth opened to reveal rotted teeth;
my eyes firmly fixed upon hers.
Slowly my arm raised up and our hands met,
BrokenI lay down my heart,
I begin to pray,
My heartstring lay.
The reds now grey,
On this unholy day,
Your hands are stained,
My heart is framed.
Encased in glass,
Lost all that lasts
Where dead men groan.
A deep dark home,
Of skin and bone,
A deep dark hole,
For a broken soul.
Mend the heart,
If you dare try,
But tear it apart,
Then be prepared to die.
In the end,
It doesn't matter.
THE MIRROR LIES (AN ACROSTIC)Trying hard to be beautiful
Hoping to somehow fit in
Make-up, curling irons, and clothes
It turns us into something else
Roses painted to be washed clean
Remnants of what we wish to be
Ordinary is never good enough
Resplendence never comes for free!
Look in the mirror, what do you see
Inner beauty is never there
Eyes are not made to look upon it
So goes the mirror, so goes the soul…