Under stormy skies,
My mind is an art gallery,
A museum of ideations,
An asylum of nightmares,
Portraits and landscapes aplenty,
Disparate images of chaotic vivacity,

The price of entry a forlorn spirit,
The exhibits are of heart-breaking intentions,
Fantasies scrawled in ink and charcoal,
Grisly outcomes and self-chastisement,
Brushstrokes wishing for things sour,
Held in frames specked in self-harm ruby,

It is a dark place,
A hell I keep under wraps,
A location best left locked,
But at times it trills out,
Calling to that theatre of suicides,
And impelling me to stay within its halls.

Comments

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s