Memories

Precious women who hug
their bosoms, while the
flotsam of thier thoughts
gather in the nape of thier
minds like a ship, wrecked
on a sea of disease.
Like a misty fever thier souls
desolve into a hazy rage
of murky blindness. And they
stumble into the memory of
thier own self-worth.
Further into the past they
slither, pasthalf-baked
love, sexy horror, misery
laughing at thier sordid
attempts to find themselves.
Through the puke filled alleys
of thier less than meaningful
existence, they wade along.
Past dirty windows, where
comes garbled, wordless songs
of shame and wickedness.
Past open doors through which
are the playful scenes of
demons in fornication, and
angels smiling as they sink into
the quicksand of time.
Blackness, like the swords of
wasps, swims from the depths
of tendrils of light, calling
them back to the pain
of the now. Fighting with
great lack of strength, they
claw thier way from thier bleak
remembrance, back to the
heartache of life. Realization
hits them.
Memories are worthless.
Madness is better.
-------------------------
Morbid, dark, twisted.
I am not really in a good place right now, and this is the result. I like it. It shows how I really think.