Palettes flashing the barricaded sky
climb the horizon and strip dark from the clarity day offers, as steps fold footprints
to the mossy trail of storms to provail the mind for mania to spill, flowers shadow the bloodlust
orchestrated from the constant terror of pathetically carved fear no longer begging to curve ball the body.
Struting to the lion's den seems like a soldier
fit of miles to tire the steps to follow and
cling the heart to it's ribcage suffocating
what little breath smoke sheds and there
Left to right, side to cliff, vision grazes the glitching castle and stumbles a look to the
front portal, thumping chest pests with
fearful excitement an expression easy to
slap away in suspicion but patience has to
drive the torch of momentum to it's determined slot.
Entrance behind, the dark feasts more intimidation than the far screeching voices,
the notification smiting the usual: 'Food
on the table at 8pm sharp, no one approach
the kitchen any second earlier or the sharp clock tick will be physically felt not only visually'.
Warnings like that couldn't scare the anger,
it shouldn't falter the notion of freedom, climbing rocks for stairs, changing in the
room to the flat line robe steps try the
hardest to float above the creaky wooden
floor and drop the spice into the
Slow as drip reaches the pot, tracks hope
to retreat when snake eyes catch a whiff
of that swaying robe and an early
punishment jinxes the right cheek.