by Alaska
In the distance,
your mistress calls to you:
a flame becomes your rock and hard place.
Her eyes beg,
terrified and alone,
questions that will always remain.
She tries once more
to make you stay,
but your mind has been made.
Take me
to your inky black imagination,
where we can ride on ravens' wings!
She cries out,
her voice a bolt of lightning,
in the Perennial night.
You consider staying,
entertaining the thought,
of running away with her to another world.
But in the end,
the flame will devourer
the both of you whole, only ashes remain.
So you turn your back,
and fly from the flame,
into the sun.
The Curse of the Puppeteer's Daughter
by Alaska
Disconnected,
my feet slip
farther from you and this place
than ever before.
The silver screen displays
film strips of random memories,
of feelings, of brokeness,
of pain.
Alone I stand,
down stage at the heart,
strings pulling at my every limb,
as they display my tale.
Greedy eyes watch,
claws extended,
as I finish
the great balancing act.
Windows glazed,
ears yearning for a reply
from a silent audience
yet, nothing comes.
My mistress begs
that I turn away.
"Nothing here," she says
"all your loves have gone."
Still they watch,
stitched lips smiling,
as I try
to escape.
For it's becoming so cold
in this tiny tin heart,
with pretentious, ferrel angels
who drink and fuck their pain away.
Teeth rotting out of their skulls,
is this all I have known?
Is this all I will know?
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