Walk away, in a field of soft roses
Taint of blame and corrupted blood
Pointed fingers pricked on thorns
Carving out olden scars of liquid gold
.
Bloated bodies twisted like vineyard green
Of jealousy, of crushed lies, of purest arrogance
I’m a mere suture away from a finished letter
So cut my chest wide open and read all my sins
.
Surely, these careful feet won’t shatter on glass
That broke beneath the creaking floorboards
Ending the same—trickling droplets of roseate
Infatuated with bliss and miasma, vials of life
.
Almost unattainable, phantom cold to the touch
Picturesque memories sparsely hanging onto the
Dusty hallways crawling with naphthalene ghosts
Roaming, distorting portraits and jagged mirrors
.
And outside the garden terrace, in a field of soft roses
Porcelain bones are buried underneath, blooming with whispered prayers
From a catatonic past, long faded and frayed at the edges
Will you walk away now, or dwell until your soul withers with the seasons?
A Lost Painting