I can understand the world is too much.
Balancing more than your head on your neck.
You feel like you need a hit or a rush,
To be a person rather than a speck.
If only you knew you are beautiful,
Without getting by with a little help.
The anxiety you hide is dreadful.
Worse is the pain you inflict on yourself.
Just know things that dwell in the darkest caves,
Find a way to develop their own light.
You are a master and you are a slave.
Which one will you be through the lonesome night?
When you are falling into bed be sure,
It is your bed and not the cold hard floor.
They gathered with a wicked air and tools,
A duty which defiles the man of form.
The imprecation cast from metal stools,
They felt through gloves on skin no longer warm.
The man was just a man, of twenty-five.
His hair was light, his eyes were dark and glazed.
A man who lived when he was once alive
Now faced intrusion, like a patient fazed.
Could death destroy the beauty that is life?
She wondered as the scalpel pierced through.
A dozen men had been under her knife.
Not one had gasped in horror, that she knew.
A monologue she had prepared in thought
Romanticised the fantasy she sought:
‘My eyes had never seen such pulchritude
As which beheld your angelic figure.
At hands of gods were you sculptured in nude
And glowing with fortuitous lustre.
Just like a king commanding jesters’ dance,
I waited on your soul, your mind, your breath.
The cataclysmic build up to the chance,
A disconcertment leaving me bereft.
Earths gravity asphyxiating us,
Though you were far from the sterility.
Your smooth surreal skin remained lifeless,
Fluorescence had disturbed tranquility.
Absconded life early and not complete,
As I bequeathed the cloak-like ghostly sheet.’