monsters

What memories lurk in the shadows of everyday bustle?

We pretend to be badder then we are,
monsters,
living in shadows
of all our fears,
in the falling ashes of our past
alone with our badness,
alone.

And the flash of a blade in the night
means nothing
is nothing
like the leaves whispering on the empty branches
and glass shuddering.

And the love-making
is written in blood
sweet.
And the love-making disturbs voices
in your heads.

And your sleep echoes our timelessness,
our uselessness,
in your world,
where everything is counted,
where everything is measured,
where everything is sorted,
and shelved.

Voices break into sobs in your world,
a glistening void
where the blood hasn’t pooled,
where the blood will not pool,
where there is no evil,
no monsters,
no purpose,

And the silence reigns supreme.

 

Copyright @ Julie Deshtor 2012