Macabre & Martyr
Chasing Phantoms
Salty tears are concealed
behind the gray apparel
that coats my cornea,
My tour guide is blind faith.
With mouse tactics,
you slowly creep yourself
out of my dead fingers reach.
A pale colour is paint
that coats your face,
so you can epitomize stealth.
Your outer exterior
is beauty personfied,
covered with a scent that smells
like a cup of oceanic air,
to lure your bait, only so
you can play catch and release.
Here's a
musty crevace, the
green neons of modern romance
illuminate two
men, squabbling over the corner
of a wallet photograph
Meaningful words
are exchanged, the flame of the oil drum
looks like a skull,
the alley smells like dead cats
the night continually knits
a bottom ocean black quilt
around me.
The guy with
experimental facial hair
untucks a hooked
knife from the thin loop on his jacket
I remember how her hair looked
like a kite flying in spirit
she runs towards me like in a movie
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