Violence

I have a tendency of violence

Flash Frozen in a tenuous consumption of a dewy, red feast

How I preferred to serve your deer meat

Sliced upon the river bed to pay homage to an unknowing god or gods

You marked me as yours selfishly without the desire to set the fire up properly

There was fire

Only a messy, gushy pile of deadened branches

Were you not Lenore, you’d be something much more enlightened, a seraph of our times

Blighted by a tortuous envy

To be the center of your fury, your anger

At the edge of your teeth like a hunted prey

Would be my definition of violence

Yet you drew no blood

It scarred me deep

The cuts of meat become malformed and presently ill

Cut up unevenly

My lost organs tossed in the ravine

The ocean waves desert me the way your deceit climbs me like an invasive plant species

So high, dry, quiet, silent, dark, light

Violence is your quiet type of death as is your silence

You knew what you did

You lied

The quiet kind of solid heartbreak

Like a quavering duck egg cracked open by a eagle’s beak

Quivering, shivering, the open air cursing its birth

The violence, my violence, crushing words like a crushed skull

No room left to

Dream

Because the purple prose bit into it

No one likes a hot-head writer trying to deal cards they do not have.