Mistook Her

Doubt lingered in the new world I stumbled upon
But I thought
It would not have been difficult for you
To hide your tracks with the materials
You kept stored in your backpack.
So I’d follow anything that came close
To footprints you left in deserted tundras.

She spoke of love and sex.
She had purple flowers
In her hair,
Threw them flamboyantly in lines
Like you had shown me before.
She used the words you used to use.
She had a caramelised voice that
Almost sounded like yours.
She spoke of tides and sands,
The last thing we spoke about
Before you departed on your adventure.
She’d throw letters at the cliff’s edges
Which I’d clumsily scramble to grasp
Before the winds could scatter
Them across the frozen topography.
The time she appeared almost matched the days
You decided to have me play
Your cat and mouse game,
Where I had always been the cat.
She spoke about our game too.
She spoke of birth on the night of my own,
Something you might have known.
I chased after her shadows night and day,
As birds would inconsiderately twitter
Regardless of the extended time frame.
She was a silhouette; a figure,
I probably, mistook for you.

She was similiar,
But the possibility remained,
She could have not been you,
Something felt wrong,
Something was strange.
So I tried to fold her
Into the pages of past mistakes
And set out to find you again.

Burdened by the time that had passed,
Thinking you had given up on our game
And called it quits,
Doubting the possibility
Of retracing your steps,
I tried to give it another shot,
As vultures circled round, decaying
Bodies in hopes optimistic venture.

Maybe if I had not been as successful
In my quests the last three times you left,
Then maybe I would have just kept her under the radar.
Instead of factoring in your deceptive nature
As a possible tool
You could use
To manipulate
To keep yourself
Hidden from perception.


Colored Insanity

In a single dimension
Where aberrant tones
Of veiled language suspended reality
To a strangely splendid universe,
To enigmatic hypothermic convulsions,
Where extraterrestrial excrements
Laid in lines of converted veneration,
Where lucid intent lied in fluttering
Optically disillusioned scaled wings,
A place where poisoned golden apples
Trailed to nonexistent goddesses,
She flails, seething, boiling in aortic pulsations.
Unfathomable actions hurl the blind and weary
To the unforeseeable depths of ruptured loss,
As disproportionate notions swirl
In psychedelic contours
Of coloured insanity.

That Were

It rises steadily
In palpitations.
Anger takes over
Visions of sanity.

A play thing.

Another ruse.
Some lame excuse
Couldn’t possibly

Except the fact
That it’s that,
That keeps me

Which fuels
The embers
That were
Turning into dust.

Cast away this reality,
It doesn’t exist

Why did I
Go back.