Max, or Not

take care, should ye wend to tend the vacuum
yond the twilight’s summon

for what one cannot foresee
may soon become thy vengeful hegemon

plotting wicked wrath
upon thy vial of coveted elixir

once, a promise
of somatic sanctuary
spurned to whisker

by the fretful fate
doled out by trimmers
of a phantom wielding

triggered by an arbitrary elbow
of capricious yielding

rendering sadistic shears
descending to a dreadful plummet

poised upon the nigh impending aperture
of fitful flummox

sparing not thy sparkling nectar
fraught now, since did clothe said contents

writhing in the tacky toils
of self-induced syrup-borne laments

“what
are we”

-to walk
alone-

i lingered,

when
the ground
relenquished

every step
was washed
away.

the pallor
of your pursed lips

impending
evermore.

i wanted

only
to forget,

then wandered

through
that bedroom door

i am such a martyr
that i wear a garter
and corset wherever i go

despite my appearance
this candid aberrance
is something most never will know

it might be quite tight
if i’m tied up just right
to the point where constriction is nigh

but such is the price
one must pay to look nice
therefore, i never dare question why

the outset

of belying absence

bore our silhouette’s adieu

slowed

the erstwhile sword
yet splinters

vital, once

with verdant hues

by our hand
the earth, we plundered

pride would hinder

our resolve

through the vales
where echoes wander

waters well

with thoughts
of you

here
are we

the midnight martyrs

masochating
in the mire

moored
amid the looming morrow

dimly lit
as dormant spires

wrested
of our spirit’s respite

revanants of ill-retire

masquerading ‘neath the mist

where misery
and moons
conspire

ain’t no use in tryna live
without a flying fuck to give
when everyone you know is screwed
and all the rest feign happiness

a prelude leading into plight
one might as well just take a powder
make their way to Aoshima
join the local recluse clowder

flee the quintessential has-beens
human beings, one and all
proven of their sole intention
wallowing in folderal

why not follow fate instead
and stand out from the fools and martyrs
pave the path of pithy preference
bolstered by a willful ardor

pop some pills if that should suit you
e’er the silent void awaits
all things extant soon diminish
why then, dare to contemplate?

just to sate one’s sordid ego
please, forgo that shit post-haste
morbid are the masochists
who muster all for naught but waste

chasing phantoms bleeds passe
so pass that dutchie on the left
and let us bask in blissful ignorance
amid this wistful weft

if not for my kittens
i would not have cuddles
nor would i have solace or peace

my threshold for humans
would suffer immensely
with sights fixed upon the cerise

my world, a disaster
imperiled by imposters
whose impetus warrants no trust

my daily routine
would become so mundane
and my facial expression, nonplussed

my soul, long since sold
to an evil untold
wont to tread on my pittance of mirth

yes, if not for my kittens
as true as is written
i would indeed, undo my birth

the expression
ever inbound

never strays
beyond its burden

with the essence
of our haplessness
impending

what truths
remain unknown

between the narrows
of the flesh

this mind
insists

a primitive perspective

to tell me

of ideals
waxed implicit

born of instinct

yet all
that would define us

lies unsaid

moored
by this morbid coil

we wept
away remembrance.

raging in the violet sun

the pages growing thin.

what once we cherished

changed
or perished

underneath unseeing eyes.

whose question

no reply
would answer.

spoken
not by one.