Fictions Of An Orphan Poem by Riano Harp

I will attempt to break the lie,
The knotted ends of a hearts noose
Tight with mathematics of vines and veins;
To die, to truly die
And regain a will to write.

Ah, it's fiction, all fiction,
And this is life!
Ah, where to write in this half-eyed existence?

Worms shrivel as they seethe on the silence
Creating echoes from the pulse of my wrists; -
I dig, blinded by heat from an aboreal hell
A beautiful day indeed! The most obnoxious intermission...
The blooded rain, rose-tinted foam, frothing from aurochs,
Mistaking a graze for gratification between ink and blood,
The lie tailing truth requisitioning the boredom of eyes,
Exploding flesh, fickle brain, mushes of fruit and soil!

Ah, it's fiction, all fiction!

Solemn black,
Shrouded breath,
This death!

The clogged writer;
No-eyed fiend!
A dozing angel!

Cracked knees serve no right
To ask where you're idle in night
But why, why do you write?
Are these coughed infections light?
Or fiction, living fiction
For unknown sight?

I serve darkness in eyes,
Patched in silk and cloth,
I wear nakedness in a mask
And wipe blood from walls I kiss.

Of heavens clouds? Or ruptured, fiery blisters?
Necessary history encrypted in worthy scars -
There is none.
Tell me, what leads me?
Fiction, true fiction?
Why is this light turned off!

I can't sleep, the bed is splintered oak!
…I am alone again, alone in silences of unfamiliar sound;
Ah, I expect no answer.
Only children believe in fiction.