Sometimes it’s as simple as one word,
Placed a particular way in a sentence and there it is,
The missing ingredient to ignite the flame.
And off we go until we come back burned to a crisp,
And we scatter our ashes about for our audience to inhale.
I don’t want to be the witty writer,
I don’t want to be the pandering poet,
I want to be the annihilator,
The igniter,
The cremator,
And soul taker.
I want to be her,
The grim reaper.
What will you do when her stare falls on you,
Drunken with the last breaths of existence,
Contemplating your effervescent fade,
Your flat lemon with no ade, no aid.
What are you doing when her cold stare,
Amongst frozen air,
Her glare,
Leaves you unaware,
She’s heartless and detached,
You’re in her lair,
Skin fair,
Night hair,
Without a care,
Her blades sheathed, bare,
She brings deaths affair.
Now you’re neither here,
Nor there,
In the inter-world of nowhere and everywhere,
Engulfed in your nightmare.
I want to burn,
I yearn,
For the lantern,
The oil,
The elixir spoil,
The dignity concern,
To take my turn,
And be her,
The death of me,
The death of I,
The death of whatever keeps me from finding the fine thread,
To tread,
To be led,
To you instead,
And leave this pseudo world,
I’ve created in my head.
Yes I’ll look her straight in the eye,
And bare my neck for her to smite,
Away with me, away with I,
And I hear the harp of heavenly goodbye,
And heave the final sigh,
It’s just ego I’ve slain,
Hung, and left out to dry.
W.E.
lonerloaner 