Let the dead bury the dead
Blotting shadows cast by coarse hair ,
gives raise to a woman
a name unknown to foreign tongues
whose body is no stranger to straying hands.
Too familiar to the deafening sound of crumpled dreams,
like crushed bills pushed into pockets.
see , she was too blinded by those who wanted to profit off the packaged products of her chest
turning dreams into vulnerable victims of death
and She shuddered,
remembering it all.
to him she was number 2501.
her limp body a temple under white sheets,
legs sustained by gravity ,
birth waters erupting so often within her mouth,
cords tugging the strings of her heart ,
rusty tongs deep enough to uproot trespassers
and she had muted all screaming long enough
to whisper Rest In Peace!
she lays roses on mahogany surfaces;
far too often to ever be counted.
bidding the time those to come may return the favor;
sprinkled wet cement on forked tongues
and sped up time so she would walk a bridge of redemption
A sanctuary that saw sacrifices as victories.
the dead as tragic heroes
the infant within, still questions her motives
Crying for mercy , his mother to save him
Accept his presence as her salvation
He says she’s forgiven
, and he’s the one drowning
she will not hear him
Has not yet tired of muddy rose waters marring tired features , in the stillness of the night
for only certain women experience the effects of the scarlett letter,
the fevered kisses of stone against bare flesh
Tiger stripes tattooed into book pages illustrated by those who never knew of bruises.
And did you see that steely glint within the desserts of her eyes
How it’s fathomless rage addressed the temple of Aphrodite
And skeltons convinced her ; death is beauty ,
for a child must learn hardship on his own.
Society must drink the very waters of her dying soul
And taste, with salt , the cords buried deep below
So they may know her strength and stray far from those rocky roads.