Infected

A dusty book rests behind closed doors

Of a castle adorned with crimson jewels,

Lit by a blackened flickering light,

And it stands infected.

 

I nibbled through its pages in the summoning glow

Of candles, as the wax dripped onto my hands,

It mustn’t hurt, I was told. And I believed,

For I was offered comfort and sleep.

 

And as I stay awake poisoned

By nightmarish versions of the truth,

I feel betrayed.

Where is the sleep I was promised?

The Heir

DSC_2476 - Copy

 

“Nothing has changed,” he chanted.

Reassurance he so desperately needed,

For the marbled floor was a liar

And it pricked like ice under his feet.

The halls where he played warrior

Were dark, damp and lonesome.

Father looked at him with chilly eyes

And performed feigned courtesies

As though this weren’t home.

 

Tears began streaming down his eyes,

And he turned away, defeated,

“Everything has changed,” he said.

The Sketch

Umberto Boccioni, Controluce, 1910. Matita su carta, 36 x 49 cm. Collezione privata. Deposito presso la Collezione Peggy Guggenheim, Venezia.

Frail with troubling eyes

That speak of lost sleep,

Of eons of skin turning into dust

And flying across the oceans,

Sparkling like feigned fires

Of sacrifice.

While the wind crawls over

The maps marked on her flesh.

Throbbing like a new flower,

Glowing in the light of a nest,

That births not life, but death.