sangria’s glass as yet half full
a quiet expanding red stain caressing her chest
perhaps all is for the best
her violet orbs fixated upon Orion’s stoic diamonds,
as if glancing accidentally upon some
forbidden forgotten Abrahamic sacrifice…
such is the sanctity of her life.
sangria’s glass as yet half empty…
vibrant, sprouting, spawning, wandering, magnificent
no roots to speak of
no one to love
not one to even care…
a simpleton expatriate solitaire
turned back to a black lumpy dust..
her station in this society gone mad
a dreamer imprisoned in the linear
a circle shoved rudely in that of a square.
her hands move soft!
a moment.. and then STOPS!
her mouth opens
as if one more sentence
refused to resist the temptation
to stumble out…
at that moment
her soul drowned
her loss, the precious cost
of a dream over-ridden with frost;
her vessel long ago traversed
the long awaited trip
upon the River Styx…
a crossing over to the other side
an escape from madness to madness
a journey made in suffering and sadness,
the river beneath kept alive
thriving upon tears of mortals
whose friends and foes
have been fated ultimate fears.
a jeer, a sneer, a leer..
each one will cost you an extra year
How can that be
when here is eternity…
even eternities have limits
unfathomable to our minds,
uncomprehending miniscule thoughts,
mere parasites in the soulful existence
of the world.
sangria, the prime example
a lonely beautiful mistress
vanished and gone;
disappeared without a tear
secluded, sainted, annonited,
holy was her head.
i say was because now
now she is dead.