Thanatos V - (H)Armed Robbery

These are the marks of her pencil tip scratches
Sitting upon my eyes, waiting for the dent to dissolve;
Slippery silver shine,
Down my cheeks, choking me from externals.

And how she draws me close,
Designed of crayon skin and pastel clothes.
Full bodied and well-intentioned,
However breathless and formless without batted observation.

I love how she formulates my chest completely concave,
Broken into by semi-weighted feline,
Pillaged of my treasures, leaving only a love letter ransom note.
Cold air torn intercostals and blue black boiling blood.

I am erased with the flick of her finger,
Rubbed off the paper, soiled and wrinkled, condensed and coffee-mug-stained,
Sometimes left in the dust with a rustic sense of trust.

This dimension is defeating, solo and only, time-ticking, present speaking.
I colour within the lines and resolve to pace these pencil shaving shakes, crying:
"Don't leave me alone alone."

Thanatos IV - The Image of a Voluptuous, Blooming Flower.

Memories draped as if in exposition, silently floating
into the transient bedtime sky, illuminated of humble explosion.
Neon colours and pointed shapes - matter of transformation, bursts of what once mattered.
Such are the moments of present projected future:
Appreciative hopefuls and attentive remembrances,
Glittered and adorned photograph recollections;
Decayed videotape memoirs of newfound significance.
These are the unstable alternatives of a story so vague,
About a boy too reserved beside a man too bold.

I sit amongst these picturesque fire flowers
Pitch black if not for the fading sparks of forgotten presence,
Feebly relighting these ancient candles
Allowing the wax to drip like oil, setting flame to the darkness.
And I now lie between the black and rose, counting these delicate petals in my left hand.

Surging thorns tear at my skin, seer for my vision - begging in lullaby kisses.
Right hand of bleeding barb wound
Finding left: a battered bouquet.
My benevolence raptured in sanguine serenity.
Kissing the wreath, gazing into the image of an ideal,
The vermillion rage consumes the forgotten
Leaving me only to oblivion
And I watch him from the neutrality,
Laying swollen eyes to dream the dream.