Visions And Verses By Asunta Jk

Impulse of a morbid night

Her skin was crushed berries stained violet/ As my tips feathered on those scarlet glass-of-skin, my breast pulsated through my valves/ There she lay right on top of my navel, as her warm ear was amused onto my very pulsating bosom/ Those uncared scraps of skin on her mouth trembled into a smile/ “Having fun aren’t we?”, I had stolen for her—to loosely shake with mocking laughter/ “Are you afraid of intimacy?”, there—There was her spear, scalding the scales around the walls of my ear soul./ “Yes, I am very afraid, afraid of you disappearing onto my greedy self with absolutely no touch of your own”./ I scratched the vomiting impulse of words/ A pressure on my hips, pressed enough to painted them blueberry/ A paired of tired hands freeze against my temple/ “Kill me”, I had gulped for her to take my suffocating ‘love’ for her, out of my ‘body’/As I ascended from my host and stared at the still warm blood wetting bare skin/ I see her drinking the blood and choke on those ‘tears’/Skin of crushed berries were now stained in blood for the name of my love.

Vapors of the petals on my skin
They told me if I wanted such a ‘beautiful’ art as them, they would shatter into pieces—so I could have those ‘pieces’ rather than their ‘whole’, which I would aspire to cage in my ‘love’ for them. They would shatter so I could suffer for ‘demanding’ them. So, I picked those ‘pieces’ to imprint on me so I could be ‘art’. They cried to me and made me suffer, I imprinted them to immortalize their pieces onto my ‘soul’. As they withered and ‘died’ in the mortal world, they remained ‘immortal’ in my ‘old soul’. Light ‘kills’ them as the dark ‘fossils their delicate beauty’. A flower withered in my hands as I run towards it’s beauty, which stains me to keep me brave as I weep for it’s death. What a coward am I? I whisper, a whisper so soft, as delicate as the flower that is ‘dead. Did I kill ‘art’ for my satisfaction? I thought. And this keeps haunting my ‘mind’ to this current moment, where I blot the paper with my tears, that runs from the black ink running with such ease on the paper that crinkles for ‘art’.