The Master

I lurk in a sanguine corner, forever waiting for my moment. And I see it every day as it drives on by, waving at me, the ephemeral mocking smirk…
“You coming, child?”
“Tomorrow.”
Always tomorrow: closing time curfews, crisp notes locked in my cupboard for momentary placation, leather bound pages to pave escape routes on a roulette wheel for a lost imagination. Ridden and riding a highway to hell, always haunted, always hunted by a face. There it goes, Master, walking down death road durges in my prison cell cerebellum. Or is it me? Is it I who is locked away in your head?

A flea-bitten cell, sans light, cramped needles, rocks, nails, nuts and bolts. A Garbage can of conscience and goth comedy. Tied up on a string, Master, ready and waiting for your redemption, yours mind it, but I always return all my borrowings. This is our temple tale, dear Dear demon, this is our cross dear Dear Killer, yours at the door and mine on the floor.

We are the shoulder where loneliness comes to cry,
We are the tree where bluebirds come to die
The dark deserted lobby of a 666 doors
The tiny glass shard of morning that you broke over my skull

Master, I obey.
I swear that I am still trapped.
I swear that I am still haunted.
I swear that I still think thrice before I smile.
I swear that I am still alone.

Rest assured you have not lost. I’ll dance with you in a river, wearing an ice-storm disguise. I’ll bury my soul in a scrap-book, with mask photographs on the fleece of your lies. Your face remains the face of many fears. Your laugh remains the laugh of my freshly cut tears. Your very own breath of brandy and death is an intrepid sea of lost dances we never shared. So take this waltz dear Dear Master its been dying a life for years.