Untitled #119

can't stop the ache of princes passion
or a weeks worth of doves.
and I wonder if this what is sounds like,
when what we are comes crashing down
and there is no one left to hear.

can't stop those vile little black imps
perched like small vultures on my mind.
rising up like qlippothic kundalini
and tearing my mind to shreds
where no one is left to see.

stop.
digest what we know
from the rotten fruits we crave.
look out across waves and remember
the night is only dark until the dawn.

can't stop.
hard to swallow truths.
feeling the breaking black sands.

imagining that Empress and the doors,
wide open waiting arms and kisses.
small drops of sugar dates.
wrapped in scarlet silks.

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