kazza_baby
Bluelighter
I watched you closely
from the distance of a hand
and a gun apart
as vertical red lines race
down your wretched legs
dripping slowly to waste you away
before your knees crumble
down like love and the lust
into a newly painted floor
of tragic truths from your
demise-- insignificant yet
well-rehearsed.
theatrical you are.
and with bullet shells
raining on the blood-soaked tiles
I fail to hearken
what your lacerated
throat screams, humbled
by your choking on dreams
you're forced to swallow
before the air becomes sparse
from blood-forced trauma
and your mouth runs dry;
you wish you could stop screaming.
but instead you stop breathing.
16 rounds fell upon
limitless lie-like liaisons
that you've spawned
with such craft and style
that i now see so surely
as your eyes roll out
to the back of your head
where you see nothing
but the absence of your life
from a storybook of crumpled pages
and wasted worlds of words
you couldn't define
even if you tried.
you don't own this life.
the gunsmoke clears; the ceilings slur.
high-heeled marks leave the scene.
your heart in my handbag.
from the distance of a hand
and a gun apart
as vertical red lines race
down your wretched legs
dripping slowly to waste you away
before your knees crumble
down like love and the lust
into a newly painted floor
of tragic truths from your
demise-- insignificant yet
well-rehearsed.
theatrical you are.
and with bullet shells
raining on the blood-soaked tiles
I fail to hearken
what your lacerated
throat screams, humbled
by your choking on dreams
you're forced to swallow
before the air becomes sparse
from blood-forced trauma
and your mouth runs dry;
you wish you could stop screaming.
but instead you stop breathing.
16 rounds fell upon
limitless lie-like liaisons
that you've spawned
with such craft and style
that i now see so surely
as your eyes roll out
to the back of your head
where you see nothing
but the absence of your life
from a storybook of crumpled pages
and wasted worlds of words
you couldn't define
even if you tried.
you don't own this life.
the gunsmoke clears; the ceilings slur.
high-heeled marks leave the scene.
your heart in my handbag.
