Soul

Or "The Soul". Either way, of the soul.

The Soul

Pledging hallucinogenic hemorrhages of amaryllis synthetic amygdala galleries of valorous valentine cyclones nomads of lone wolf avalanche dancing with the stars incarnations incarcerated by the serrated deities of the night-skyscrapers evaporators of angel masonry hanging from the botanical maverick of anarchy’s aneurism amaryllises rhythmic envisioning omnipotence quivering the violin’s lymphatic limericks of hypnotisms singalongs of autumn autopsies of automaton symphonica comets drawn from the sonic bomb of cosmic dawn on the darkness of heartless armada of sociopathic Vatican hangman extravaganzas dangling from the chest of exodus’s seductive misanthropic velociraptors tap-dancing romantic shanties reanimated from the claymores of Phantasia's glass aether glaciers of champagne aromatherapy characteristics blitzing misfitting mystified tyrants metamorphosized of pacifistic ammunition the asterisks ectoplasmic insanity sandwiched to the anchorage of the pancreas vanquishing sanctuary’s endeavour of adrenaline revving like a tempestuous sentinel of my left ventricle, fourth-dimensional

Home is where the heart is, and nothing beats through the streets like young blood

Lethargic, the soul is where the love was, stained to the glass Lazurite with the tears of picture frame humanitarianism

The veneer shattered into a million pieces of immaterial murals of feelings ethereal

Graffitiing bleeding hearts, the soul is just another card in this game, and I don’t have many friends left in these hands

Even if I’m not a Queen of Spades, I still try to bury this sanguine canvas, lest my friends roll over in their graves like Rorschach on the waves of the St. Lawrence

And illusionary ideas of growth spring forth like a plague in this graveyard like new souls in a monsoon of memories like a hurricane that sleeps in the night sky’s chain-link fence

Home is where the heart is

Nirvana’s labyrinth patterns the Savannah, like a sewage grate on the side-street

And all that blood and self-sacrifice drains through the crack of dawn into the crimson moon

And we reflect on our mistakes

Once in a blue moon

Cause the sky is where the soul is

Eternally murdering the angels of this earth

But don’t expect change, even for the homeless

Because the sky’s the limit

And when it’s over and our lights are knocked out, the kites of the skyline rhinestone metropolis still canopy the menagerie like animalistic candlelights burning in purgatory’s Wax Museums

The waning crescent of a silver scythe reamplified in a satin smile glorifies another night  

So for heaven's sake, we better have a hope in hell

I’d sell my soul to Beelzebub's parhelion to maintain the calm before the storm

Quell the crying souls of heroes yet to be born to a concrete jungle

Buried in the sky

Treasured in our hearts

Inscribed upon our lives

Are the diamonds of ivory called soul

Broken glass Rorschach’s in the pastures and backstreets of afterlife

Some bastion of castrated Lazurus

Some god made continuously man, made to suffer, to grow, to wither, and pass the torch

Catching fire on the silence of every second an effigy of beckoning for redemption’s hemispheres

That is the silver lining of the soul

Second-guessing resurrection

A beautiful, immortal death

 

 

 

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.