Kings and Queens, to Die in Dreams...

Oooooo....

Oooooo....

Kings,
and Queens,
for gold -
for lust -
must fall
to dreams,
like stone
to dust...

O'er
the bridge,
they built
my death,
but break,
I shant -
you are my
last breath...

Oooooo....

Oooooo...

He had.
Iron-forged hands like shackles
about his raging neck;
and dangling there,
from a gloomy spine shaped like a broken question,
resigned to the answer,
were slit-wide wrists
shut closed
to a familiar
oval portrait;
and when the weight was too much to bear,
he stood straight
and let the wavering smile flicker
and grow shadows-like doubts
in the corners of his thin pink lips.
The faded cacophany of blood-soaked happiness
softly dormant
in the silver brand between his collarbone
engraved the words of his sepia derangement
where he could not see:
Ich liebe
dich immer -
I
will love you
always.

And so,
the ache was a thorn
to the blurred vision from the glass lips
of his wine-stained monarchy -
The bridges burned,
and he danced like this -
broken,
fettered,
and wild-eyed,
swaying for the self-hatred kissing his hips.


He was once a king,
with a solid stance
and heels that bounded from pen
to page,
chasing his lofty dreams
like prey.

He neither showed no mercy
nor knew no harm.

Perhaps,
he was insane
upon the throne,
gathering listeners to witness blasphemy,
and laugh;
because the locket branding his throat
succeeded
in drawing the last of it nigh,
and drowning it to the screams
that billowed
from the ash
and cigarette smoke
of the forge in his heart,
where a withered Volcan toiled,
scourging the lungs
where words once arose from.

He was a melting fiend.

Not a king...

...With the sun dying in his eyes.

Oh,
how he fell for lust
and eternal glory...

To lose oneself within one's dreams -
and he lost his dearest
to the dust,
the sands of time he let slip through the heels
of his Supras,
below.

It is no wonder
how he lingers
by the shore,
wishing that whore,
his lover,
his fame
to return...

All that glitters

is not gold.