A Riddle’s Diary
Broken is the binding that keeps
My pages untorn.
Rings cracked open,
Diverted from the spiral spine.
But I know they were severed—
I watched them,
Felt them being crushed
By 500 pounds of books—
I heard the snap, I saw the blood
And now they are dead—
They still bleed.
They still cry.
My pages have folded,
But the creases have not torn.
Black and red roses of
Divine velvet foliage,
Spiral velvet ice
Protected by briars
On the stems.
Have you ever seen a black rose?
Gothic and mysterious,
Dejected yet blissful,
Dark yet pure.
I’ll be your red rose
If you be my black.
You’ve never seen a black rose.
There’s a little black
In our red.
Ink dragging slowly down the empty sheet,
Staining the innocent with mortal words.
So how can I create works so concrete,
If I can’t touch thoughts that remain unheard?
Homework, always homework, learning from books,
Never a free write appreciated.
Being held back like a puppet on hooks,
Never awakened, emancipated.
Imprisoned by responsibility,
Neglecting all so-called “forever friends,”
My mind is flying to all fantasy,
To join my heart and soul as one again.
I think that my thoughts are way too abstract.
The gift of pure oddity—I like that.
“Come little children, I’ll take thee away, into a land of enchantment!
Come little children, the time’s come to play, here in my garden of magic.”
Shards of black crystal water
Dangling from innocent digits.
Freezing mist sprays.
Her skin sparkles in the dark.
She’s covered in divine glitter.
Cycles of frozen cones suspend from her black robes;
Midnight eye-shadow coats her lids,
Blushes of pale red take their toll on her cheeks,
As if from the cold.
Mystic black colour lies thickly on her lips;
Long, thin fingers support
Long black, glimmering-polished nails.
Skin pale yet as creamy as milk,
Teeth whiter than snow,
Devilish fangs leak words of morality…
But not mortality.
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