#cdvalera

In this empty head,

As if pieces of me were dropped

Along the path I had tread.

I wondered what was in there

Before I sought a cure,

Before I settled on the solution,

And wanted nothing more.

Here I am talking about myself,

Words reverberating against my bones.

My hollow frame never feeling filled,

As if I am travelling between homes.

What would I give to feel whole again?

A selfish question at its core.

What would I give to stop these shaking bones?

Everything, and more.

Lungs on the floor,

I left my kidneys downstairs.

For anyone who cares.

I don’t know where my spleen is,

It’s almost out anyway.

My brain I think I remember,

At least in its original form.

Perhaps all this blood isn’t from me,

Perhaps it came from the crowd.

But I forgot that nobody’s around me,

And that it was just a shroud,

I still have one thing I can cling to,

Or well, it clings onto me.

And that is the guilt I suffer,

And sometimes it makes poetry.

Overreaching a fertile yield,

And yet this tree does not grow,

And its fruit is often dark and low,

Its bark is strong, its roots are deep,

And the leaves are very sourly leaved,

While the apples it grows, the fruit from it,

Is sour, bitter, even deadly to a child,

Why is this tree like this? Where did its malice come from?

Why would the bark of a tree command anything but God?

Perhaps this tree knows about its past,

Perhaps it knows about a vixen that last,

Wrought the tree with fear and flame,

And maybe this is how the tree became,

Perhaps this tree will never grow another fruit,

That can be edible by humankind or lover’s conduit,

“Eat them” he says urgently, on a first encounter,

“I need you to try them,” but she hesitates, “The apple you ate?”

“Yes of course” the man replies, “Don’t you love me?”

She bites the apple, and is overcome by darkness,

Because it is over, and the tree is still standing.

A blackened tree stands in its field,

Overreaching a rotten yield.

Your glowing face under your nocturne hair.

What do you see across the water?

A reflection on the pond, you caught her,

The full moon’s reflection on the water.

Do you hear something calling?

Remind me again of how you feel to touch,

I didn’t know I loved your skin so much.

When will you be leaving?

Your life’s work, your sirens call,

Has summoned you, oh the gall!

How could they take you from me?

Who am I to stop you and stand

In front of your vision’s grand,

Do you wonder if I’ll miss you?

Sure, enough, this is not in stone

I suppose I just don’t want to be alone.

After all, don’t we all hate the silence?

This won’t be the end, I firmly believe,

And I refuse to give you such relief,

After all, don’t you know I am stubborn?

I hope our futures do collide,

And I hope its not too much to confide,

That you know, I could have loved you.

For I have come for my revenge, vanity, exhilarated with vigor

Looking upon the stone face, glaring, with pure malice.

To sit here and be mocked, humiliated, by a face so callous.

Enough was enough, bravery, violently ripping at its glare.

Feeling the heat and breaking flesh, triumphant, never breaking my stare.

My grip was firm on the sides of the visage, control, holding it in my claws.

This is what you get for mocking me, revenge, revealing all your flaws.

As I chip away at the white rock, unveiling, taking down this monument.

But my assault had only such a lifespan, exhausted, forced to suddenly relent.

The day was won, and falling upon the grass, proud, of what I had done.

Looking upon the statue covered in blood, wounded, bright red against the sun.

But then realizing the pain in my fingers, lacerated, bloodied in the mud.

And the Idol looked back at me unharmed, sweating, dripping my own blood.

My mind coming to rest, pondering, accompanied by the dead.

Finding calm in the cold stones, inscribed, with the names of those set free,

But while I walked on the chilled dirt, a wisp, a smoke of some sort met me.

I’m too old for ghost stories, skeletons, and spooks of the like,

And I wasn’t prone to, looking, nor expecting any such a fright.

But the smoke formed a woman, gaunt, and sobbing at her mound,

And feeling as if I was looking into a mirror, staring, rooted and spellbound.

“Oh please do not become me”, pleading, came from the beaten shade,

Fear gripped me when she turned, a resemblance, I saw myself in her fade.

“Please be alright my young self, please, be careful where you go,

Lest you end up forgotten, alone, somewhere you don’t know”.

And with that verse she approached me, floating, arms aloft,

And I resisted initially but stood still, allured, and her sudden grip felt soft.

With a breeze of cold coming between my arms, lofting, through my clothes,

And I stood alone in the cemetery, on chilled dirt, wondering what she knows

Smelling the heat, the thrashing water, to relieve my body so sore.

Felled beneath the bubbled waves, submerged, washed over with glee.

And though my body was now relaxed, a feeling, a feeling came to me.

Upon my toes a narrow slip, a sliver, something floated near.

It felt quite strange, it must be a hair, but a noise came to my ear.

A bubble and a pop, coming from the drain, but my senses came fast,

I disregarded these things, remnants and haunts, of my memory’s busy cast.

Out of the pipes it came, slipping through my toes, it did not mind to be ignored,

Convinced what it was not, growing, it took it’s time to come forward.

It clasped upon my leg and thigh, terror and fear, my eyes opened into the light.

It had grown to a size disturbing, wider and larger, covering the floor despite my fight.

Rising to see no slender string, but a monster spreading, as the tentacle covered the tub in black

I stood to stomp upon it, slipping on its oily skin, I fell to the tub with a smack.

I woke on the floor painfully sore, bloodied, my senses obscured by pain,

And the tendril lay, small and harmless, as if mocking me by the drain.