Wednesday, 5 August 2009

Dead Monarchs

Still residing but slowly rotting.
Torn under the tide of life, stuck in two minds, neither of them love.
Too many missed chances to count.
Wandering around the ruin of their Gormanghast lamenting a long dead Queen Mother
crooked Crowns upon their heads filled the half-forgotten but ever present regrets of yesterday.
And to a Queen who's compassion longed for flight? she now sits but as a Bird in a cage, one who harks sentiments she's not even sure are true. Shouting at confused kids who themselves are still stutter stepping between the pews.
This, our castle, an unholy temple to the richness of lifes faults.
Sinking slowly further into the belly of the beast.
Whom can repair the holes in time which fate has forged?

While the King is breaking down trying to fix his Throne with the madness and delusion that ever rots his soul, my Queen is seeing Ghosts and crying out to let go.

Both microcosms of the terrible side of insecurities.
Both suffering from that incurable Cancer of the soul.
Both dying from the Nausea

Falling upon cold stone floors clutching wild-eyed heads in bony hands, riddled with the greatest disease that can ever forsake a person, remembrance of past decisions and the images of their tombs.
I left her crying out to a God she desperately wants to believe is there, desperately tells me she wants to go to, but doesn't deserve.

The Bathroom smelt like piss again, probably because she's incapable of not wetting herself when she gets drunk.