pacified

my loyalty is frugal and shy. i am unable to guard while stationary, and i pray my arms my soul to keep.
i throe with the haunting - yes, i see your words and hear your images.
you were once midas to me, and i ventured after my own platonic in your library mind.
what i found were the tragedies and romanticism of isolation, though now as my thoughts pull themselves through scathing cracks, i realize it was devastatingly perceived.
i found a subtle rebellion, a chaos, a revolution. and to fight the ghosts, i begged for a shell of you.
when my hands clutched the vain wind in triumph, i found the stench of my days in pretense, and resented you for my own request.

to put it simply, i said words in ecstasy that i should have ensnared.
i cried with angst because i didn't know what to say.
i was an awful tangled mess of beginning to be me, and ending as your impostor.

the wrong you have not yet charged me with.

so ask anyone - i elude. i'm no more than a thief sustained by the thrill.
i don't know if i'll ever be my own pillar, and until then, collapsing at the base of you would only cause your temple to fall.
to suffer you that agony again, believe it or not, terrifies me.

"to love, and lose what we love, are equally things appointed for our nature." -lewis

i merely haven't cradled the first. i'm sorry i let you down.

Question:

Is it better to be lonesome and free?
Is it better to be petted and caged?

11-1-10

These days are colored in the Impressionist style. Today is fog, early persimmon; the subject a sick flower. I'm no more a little school girl, perfecting my cursive spelling words. But my fingers scroll the same. Recreating what looms for kill outside the heater-vents. Supplanting myself as frightened beneath pervading rain. Always running. I wasn't meant to be the savior - I'll leave that to God. Macabre and journal in hand, I'll document your downfall. It's what He made me for. If only the critics weren't shy.