There is no chance for you, child.
This silver tongue I doubt you believed, but nevertheless, I tried my hand.
This poison anesthesia, I insinuated into you-to make you believe,
to make you forget.
It's not a lie I told to you-no, countless truths,
cutting so deep the marrow dripped gold with veritas,
shone in the sun like a beacon.
Nevertheless, I said I'd try.
You know, I know I lied.
I cannot sic my slinking, serpent siren's voice upon slabs of petrified oak and glazed, grazed marble.
Cold, unyielding; brittle, fragile: they are immune to the whispering of the wind,
the laughing of the lies and mostly truths as I
dance with lips dripping of honey and vinegar, these
hybrid eyes burning with arsenic,
drowning in the smell of orchids,
that flower that lives forever, or dies so sweetly, sickeningly, hypnotically, in the attempt.
That which is inanimate
does not care if it burns. It just
does.
Poison most potent can only dissolve a hole
in a slab.
Flowers can overcrawl it, but it is
chlorophyll-leeching work...
to suck life out of that which never walked
and burst through the stone.
It can be done, but over halflifes and lifetimes. I do not
have that much time left to waste.
Three integers, two reasons, one syllable, and half an answer.
No.
Trust plays a part and I can't trust
used too easily. You remind me
of a smile I knew, on the face
of an insidious snake, who
slithered into my mind,
and infected it utterly:
its venom still throbs,
in my skull to this
day. Like malaria
I think these
marks will
never go
away.
Not a noun, this beast-if so, only abstract. Merely
a symptom, but the best of the worst of the woes.
I hate to admit it, but I am not yet
immune to the knives, as wind
to the lies-I can't pick them up and
fling them, throwing them far, far away
so the sound never reaches the ears.
I could be picking my wars.
But I rather doubt it
and so do you.
I cannot stand it. I can't.
I am paranoid, with my sixth eye always whirling
and my mind working out the new ways
that the world is screwing me over.
You could figure
among that equation
and I am NOT
will NOT
bare my back for the knife
so I can figure that out.
There is no chance for you.
It's not a lie I told to you-no, countless truths,
cutting so deep the marrow dripped gold with veritas,
shone in the sun like a beacon.
Nevertheless, I said I'd try.
You know, I know I lied.
For protection-yours, theirs
and of course,
theirs
and
mine. |
Submission Name: There Is No Chance.
