• illicit_skunk 54w

    call of the brainfever bird

    chugging down
    a camphorated tincture of opium,
    she chuckles and says,
    "the disquiet was consuming me,
    so i consumed it instead."

    she thinks it is unfair of them
    to censor her eyes.
    days go by.
    she has stopped getting gorged at;
    they say they'd kill for her soul -
    but souls fly
    when set free.
    mayhem runs it's anarchy
    when we lose control.

    when the anarchist
    becomes the monarch
    and the monarch has nothing more
    to love or to lose,
    their roles switch
    and the focus shifts
    to a defective noose.

    the scenes in her head
    are shot in muted colours;
    under stormy skies,
    with nameless lovers.
    you've been one of them.
    but it never smelt like her
    under your covers
    (not a trace of her
    in your poetries
    or your heart)

    the mornings go by quietly.
    the evenings do so, too.
    the chaos of the blue hour batters her mind.
    there's no more left of you.
    the brainfever bird coos,
    declaring it's claim
    on some wretched territory,
    boasting of it's newfound sense of belonging -
    crushing the edges of her ribs
    into splinters;
    but she chuckles and says
    that the disquiet was consuming her,
    so she consumed it instead.

    she likes it
    when the skies defy the sun
    and flaunt their undertone.
    so they have chosen to stay dark
    for a while.
    she says summer's too far,
    for it's already here.
    and it scares me when I see -
    she is what becomes of us
    when we run out of fear.