The Sister
by Kicking Bear Productions
Title
The Sister
Artist
Kicking Bear Productions
Medium
Painting - Acrylic On Canvas
Description
"The Trap Door"
Faith, held inside our mirrors of stillness...
Crowded by innocence playing like children near trap doors...
The song at midnight erupts in the attic of my mind.
Each note exploring a veil of visions.
My questions walking me through a thoughtful teasing closet; where I never age.
Here, I sit in theater... arrested; wrapped as a patron within the blind fold of dreams.
The bone colored shelf bares witness to a seat of shiney gold keys.
I play with them very well... in drifting questions that never tell...
Was it that painful to deliver the ancient promises so easily made... or must I feel the master of masks in finality slaid?
Orbs of music orchestrated in dusty painted hallways linked and chained to the melody of a blood thunder storm.
Shot through the heart.
Jealous rage.
My life snuffed out with murder in a cage
The harvest of waves crouch and turn in artful madness.
A message thrown to surrender.
Tears cast like a sea to flood through the veins of a silent scream.
Its the haunting dream...held ransom smoldering in the refuge of untamed powers.
Only hope is the milky white nurse wearing the crowning veil for diamond love.
A kind touch could tie my dare in visions to the room of smiles somewhere....
The humble light swings and winks... hanging... dangling from a chain held by a ceiling filled with doubts...
Yet, inside these vestal walls raw of wane, I still pull upon the chord where lingering shadows unfold to find another lovers sight.
The nightmares are feeding the broken children on the curb who cling to the brass ring of reality tonight...
Horrors...ghost of the attic...tormented sage, stail and tainted in rabid ghoul..
I feel my heart hardening in organic prisms growing endlessly.
Faint not from the dagger of truth...
Life is sometimes cruel...
A maze unconquered.
Threads of a spiders web by the rooftop.
Yet, here... I am the wraith, the fallen fool... lost in the attic near trap doors...
Hidden inside a closet faded from delight...
How is it I am sheilded from scars forgiving the hand written in words of wrath and spite...
Reading stolen letters...
Living in crayon drawings...
The tiny hand writing in flint...
Heart break by graphic inscriptions laced upon the ancient wall paper...
The dream of darkness continues pointing to the old oak desk smeared in candle wax, winter flowers, and a quilled pen of ink dressed up in purple and blue.
The gentle hand of time ticks in tender touch by a melting watch passing minutes through the heart flames burning memories into the sweeter parts of view.
Thoughtful scent.
Surprising truth.
Needing sex by the shrinking passage of resolve.
Near am I to the emotions cascading in pearls furiously aggressive within an audience commanding desire in the fight of lies, wicked and naked in flight.
Rising attacks twisted folding over the bite of authority.
I am claiming no surrender.
I am using the keys of gold stolen in a story never told...
A ruthless turning of abuse to unlock the ticking clock in a new afterlife...
another gentle bruise to hide...
a flood of tears cross relentless depth, the final straw is here...
where I will stand within the attic of my mind without fear...
A muse in translation of unknown silence... near a trap door.
Protecting Wild Things,
Kicking Bear Barry
The Eccentric Poet
Uploaded
October 21st, 2009
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