Made From Concentration

Poetry | Nashville

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[omalleyn]

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Make it rain down on me,

hellfire.

Take it to the blackened sea,

holy water.

Rattle the cage until I cannot breathe,

ivory blocks.

Cuff me when I commit the deed,

wound in salts.

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My love never knew,

Anyone.

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Those eyes, burning red,

blend the lights, beaming,

through closed blinds.

The siren glare,

connects us,

when I draw curtains;

collecting over my body,

covering me like thorned sheets,

drawing blood to my skin

as if they were tears,

making my body

your siren,

burning red.

[omalleyn]

Fall to me,

like the ground underneath,

to move, to step,

sink in like teeth.

To shine,

to swell,

to walk on balloons,

to fall,

to crumble,

with pins under shoe.

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The awes of wintery salt

crumble beneath my

crusted, tannish boots.

Deadly silent snowcapped atmosphere,

boots like salt grinder,

the sound technicians creative solution.

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Here, in room,

to drown in wake,

to force the mouth

and to force the plate.

Thinking not to revel in loss,

but thinking of pain in cost.

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Epidemic

Good people,

in chronic pain.

Whispering in public

with gentle Death.

Asking for mercy...

"Heroin, heroin. Time to join me at the gate..."

[omalleyn]

Questions should only be a luxury

for those that listen.

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