Jack's Twisted Kingdom
I think I was a much better writer when
I was miserable, heart ached, and in dire
need of the touch of my lovely and utterly
enchanting girlfriend. Now, I write very
little, for I have no muse to reap the
benefits from, nor the tumultousness that
tended to be wrought from the firey and
often chaotic emotional imbalances that
portended my relationship.
Now, I'm apathetic. Morose. Melancholic.
And who knows really when it'll end. I
certainly don't see the spiraling stairs
that would lead up to the light, nor the
stunning revisitation of that which I so
The touch, the smell, the fine caress of
a naked body, lithe, soft as satin, with
blushes falling down like rose petals in
the thick fog of ambrosia's light.
It is that gentleness I so deperately
seek, and yet, I have none of it. I cannot
even see it in the shadows I so greedily
splay my fingers out to grasp at.
Now the bell tolls, and wither it away
the songs of abated breath, and the torent
of failed romance clinging so enigmaticaly
upon the precipace of my once gaunt and
firmly entranced lust.
I feel nothing, save the wind of lost and
dreary memories, all but fluttering away
into the nights dawn musky air. Lightning
cracks away the visage I so hold tight to
myself, and reveal the chinks in the armor
I so elaborately conceal, with nary but
my own belief in the lies I tell myself.
this is the end I fear, and yet I smell the
air, and wonder as my dreams take me upon
the whirlwind of desires so pent up and
bursting within, the fires of lust demanding
payment for thier services I have so little
wrought of late.
Where is my ebon princess? My white porcelain
skinned mistress? my muse who so divinely calls
my name in the sweat drenched nights we share
so casually with nary but the pride of open
silence and the contempt of none.