Ace Of Black Hearts
The butcher is back.
With words to slaughter.
And emotions to totter.
A cradle the rocks way to hard.
A lullaby that absolutely sucks.
A thumb placed in a hot apple pie.
Not a single flinch, as the skins boils and singes.
What is pain if not in our heads?
I can already visualized the dread.
Here's a pledge, a salute straight off edge.
Screaming now, now like the current present isn't good enough.
Anger twisted and redirected in every which way.
Dull razor ran up and down.
The damage is not immediate.
Can you not hear the fading internal heart beat.
Slower, and quieter, till there is this where did go?
I just don't know.
Dreaming through the greatest horror flick.
Someone was bashing in his head with a stick and I missed it.
The absence of ghosts in appearances.
The sex was good.
But the drugs were better.
Walking with angels among the sand.
If only death was truly so eloquent.
Seizures vibrating right through.
There is no saving him.
Just another causality of dying romance.
And tonight I dance, twisting and turning every which way.
For just a single glimpse.
Something not yet seen, not yet felt.
Standing in the mirror to have peek on what is on the other side.
A second dimension both limited in scope, measurements.
Give me my final drink.
Give me my final blink.
Leave me rest on the brink.
With flavors so distinct.
Traveling to an unknown rainforest with creatures of all kinds not of the this world.
Visions that swirl and become but golden pearls.
This is what it could be, this is what it could mean.
Making sense of that which rattles the soul beyond this life.
A birthday cake carved with the perfect knife.
Shapes, sizes and patterns easily devised.
Memories of flashing lights.
Waking up to a duller sight.
Trying recapture it with all my might.
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Comments about this poem (Butchered Dreams by Ace Of Black Hearts )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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