I feel the spirit of your fear
the twisted stories living within your tight grip
the screams that become chants
of love songs left unanswered…
love songs of mirrors of wanting
as you live in your attempts of a designed slow suicide.
You are feeling alone as a door with no key…
and you want company.
I know the energy from your echoed memories
your need to capture and control
the draining of the fluids
for you are so hungry, starved and ravished
for the blood and the water
the draining of the fluids
as you are so thirsty
…so dry like the desert of your spirit
you are the metaphor of a black snake weaving
through the bowels of mother earth.
You are looking for a firing
a light that is needed to ignite.
You are dreaming in the cellar of your dreams
buried in the madness of the space…
in the room of your most cherished memories, living
behind the ears in staircases of poetry that encase your dreams
lost maps of labyrinths of rotundas and chapels
as you build fires to burn the stairs
so full of madness in vain attempts to be human
in your sanctuary of secrets
in your family living room
as you dance with the demons
of your underground maneuvers
of your nights of dreaming
with your eyes wide open…
you are beating your chest
with tight fists, slamming the bridge
of your forehead petitioning sanity to be yours
as you burn symbols on your chest.
You use your own hands
to bruise yourself
and you try to give them to me
as precious gifts
but I am not in need
to be a living sacrifice.
So, I will not dream in your house of your dreams
because I know the pain of your dreams
a dream without water to wash the soul…
a dream without love or grace in your place of belonging.
I will not sing with you
or sit and repeat the words of your bruised wails…
for my house of dreams are love songs
I sing under my breath as I sing
notes of loving the grace of life
as I lift up my voice in my dreaming prayers.
You would always watch me, silently
while I sleep.
I feel the gifts of your dreaming being revealed
in the wetness of your movement
in your methodic story of being
who you are each time
your body and spirit come
into the presence of my living room…
in an attempt to join with my spirit
a reach to merge with me
so you can take your position
to strike with precision
because you are so willing to do anything
to own the space in which I stand.
This is a twisted love affair
of mixing oil with water
and you are so thick with confusion…
and the oil stains stick to the skin like glue.
And when you think
you are the hand of the man behind the curtain
in your attempt to work the magic of aggression
pushing buttons with secret thoughts
in hopes of slowing life down.
But you did not bother to ask
for my permission to sign
on your emotional dotted line.
The beauty of the movement
the slithering of the body in motion
the hidden thoughts of being protected
arched to strike at any moment…
you live in your spirit of your greed
because you have no purpose to life
beyond your hunger, your ghost of oppression
while you are creating rituals praying to be free.
This is a twisted love affair
of mixing oil and water
and you are thick with confusion…
and the oil stains stick to the skin, like glue.
And I have decided
it is not good business to
dance with a devil child
nor is it good or wise
to sleep with fear.