She paints skeletons and talks to angels
while surrounded by a ring of candles
when ritualistic divinity
sparks to ignite the most vehement flame.
Sharp objects guard shadows in the corner,
haunting her flesh as she tries not to stare,
although a lifetime of disfigurement
is almost worth the momentary gain.
She chokes on distorted forms of glamour,
chanting hymns of faith beside an altar,
trying to eliminate the habit
with orchestras in a raven-black night.
The box she sleeps in isn't safe enough
because the enemy is in her tomb,
laughing to shame the inevitable
and swallowing what never existed.
She attends masquerades and talks to sin
since angels keep refusing to respond,
but one more hole is a small price to pay
for one more moment of aversive peace. |
Submission Name: Blame It On Vanity
