Frailty’s Baggage~ Dreaming of Jim Morrison
There is no grief in language
when you’re stricken, cast down,
changes silhouette past silence
pausing sullenly through the
echoing corridors of my mind.
Torn posters without poetry,
without song, without love,
face hopes and fears in the mirrors
of pain; and his sex hangs unhidden,
and his metal heart sweeps through
abandoned philosophy as the curtain
closes on the sensual train.
I want repetition of song, recollection
in truth; to create from the oblique,
denying the erotic, an obeisance to
the power it steals from those of us
who can’t find anything to live for,
but everything to die for. Cast not your
demons of treachery, tears, anger, and
betrayal on me; the elevator is rising.
There’s fumbled endorphins offered
up as a cocktail with some really good
whiskey and meth cocaine. Smell the
lily and the rose,
let the bricks soften to deep greens,
let God speak austere though vacant
fields while you grow stillborn
through drugs so sweet. Let the
suicide take on its own craft and magic,
as daylight comes and a stranger’s face
brings forgiveness; blooming, blooming,
in the scent of your sweet blood. Your rib
is gone, son of Adam and He shall
have her heart; lowered lids expand as
they rise in total annihilation. Tick tock.
White roses growing in the corner,
lilies dead on the sidewalk.
©2021 Theresa Gaynord All rights reserved.
Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of-body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines, ezines, anthologies, and books throughout the years. She is a former elementary school, a psychic medium/reader, and advisor.