A dark poem about about darkness dressed as light
So now, to the conclusion.
You have spindles for fingers.
Wisdom has fallen away, like
Flesh peeling from a body in the burning sun,
Deserted, too willingly by once-lovers.
Each victory is another step for you
Upwards to a lonely summit, sharp as the prick
Of Rapunzel’s needle, sharp and cold.
Pinch yourself, and pray hard that the pain
Reaches through to your sallow sinew.
There is no kindness in you now, despite
The garlands you flourish, like showers
Of broken china, poured from a bedroom
Window of collapsed kisses and crushed dreams,
Pulled to earth before they could ever bloom.