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Array
(
[sid] => 115901
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => White Dirty Caress
[time] => 2006-03-05 20:24:14
[hometext] => The reality of how we become angels
[bodytext] => I always have this dream; white, lusterous and dirty feathers caress my transparent face from the endless sky. I can’t help but reach out to see if they’re nervous or shy. Can you…can you finally help me? My black and brittle bones cry for them, pushing itself away from the very thing it was born into. They never stop, never stop floating slowly from my scarred back, fitting their identities into the rotting, screaming earth. It’s all I can see, bleeding fingers touch impurity for the first time to never look back to a life of insane innocence. I die when the last wing is cut It’s close, and outcasted miracle rests on my back, allowing my flesh to resurrect and imperfect creation. Without it, I am nothing to fallen dolls containing souls of loving hatred. Eternal rest, how can these attachments of dying grace dismiss someone clean of sin? Paper cranes, a foretold pain desperately ascends up my frame, Ghosts of Crimson slumber wake me from my murderous eyes. I accept this, devastating happiness leaks from my aching wounds, reaching out to touch what I had always longed to see, black feathers mould to a structure of heaven formed in-between my shoulder blades. Flying with previous need, I can’t reach the sea of shameful lovers. Tell me what’s real? Who am I? Am I the Angel who was born out of self-malice? Or am I a delusional girl too insane to recognise the difference…? [comments] => 2 [counter] => 158 [topic] => 13 [informant] => Ryoko [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )
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