The Marriage

Call it a good marriage
For noone ever questioned
Her warmth, his masculinity,
Their interlocking views

Call it a good marriage
They never fought in public
They acted cordially and faced the world with pride
Behind closed doors was another story
No one knew how they really lived

Both were suffering deeply; the agonizing loss of their child
A child who had not yet lived to see the dawn of day and died quietly in its sleep

The gut-wrenching sorrow like darkness shrouded around her heart squeezing in a vice like grip
The haunting banshee wail rising from its tip; the outpour of rage buried from within

Broken glass, shredded walls, torn up furniture, screams and shouts, blood flying Chaos and torture streamed out,  yet on the outside they always made sure to construct the mask so that no cracks or chips may reveal the dark and tragic ghostly past

Her eyes gleamed of happiness and mirth But stare too long, and a bystander might recognize the zombie in her place

A dead soul still trapped and forced to live on in life
A heart still beating even though dead inside
Wanting to die yet living each day
is a fate worse off than death

Call it a good marriage; looking out from within
It's an entirely different story
A hell on earth though no one would ever know
The tragic story of the two lovers whose lives were torn apart

They say something snapped within them one day
The dam just overloaded and burst
The wife found her husband hanging from a noose
A note left on the floor
The wife took her own life with Polonium and a knife
A few words added to the faded message for the world to know

No one even knew they were gone; they seemingly vanished from view
Until one brave soul dared to enter their home
And was shocked at the macabre scene
two dead decomposing skeletons hands intertwined
Each in an eternal embrace
The fine hand script on the worn out paper
faded but still clear
Reminiscent of Edgar Poe's echoing haunting lament;

"Nevermore, Nevermore"

Curled up Endings

I sat up waiting
for the night to change
with just a blanket of stars
and an imagination.

Some nights are darkness
that never end

until morning
sprinkles shards of light
through accidental cracks
and warms caramel skin

a stranger to Spring

like daffodils too close
to the sun, wilted,
on willow days
when the furthest thing
from my mind

was love,

but still,
I dreamt it, lived it in pages,
brown around the edges,
torn, curled up endings
too good to be true.

Moons were always too far away;
too blue to touch
serenading all those stars.
but, he;

he struck a chord
on a backwards day
and the fourth finger answered
what lips couldn't
in July

when everything was golden

like those daffodils
way back when.