The Cost Of Your Hand
I awake on a bed of roses,
Whose petals crunch like orphaned autumn leaves.
A ray of sunlight towards me approaches,
Dancing in the light are muddy speckles aplenty.
I can feel the air around me toy with my locks,
Which is as feeble as your grasp on my hand.
But I hold on
To you, this very second, this very moment.
The mere sight of you sugarcoats my disillusion in delusion.
You're a dream, your presence a revelation.
But you're just that, a dream, a lie, a dupe.
I don't know what to make of you.
You offer me your hand as we float,
And I instantly spot instead of your palm an iron hook.
I take it, without a question, your support.
Guess I've forgiven you.
A hook for a hand
Costs me my faith in you.
On my skin the iron crescent lands.
In bruises and wounds my palm is festooned.
You let go of my hand and fade away,
Leaving my severed palm to bleed incessantly.
But as the traces of your last remains are erased,
I feel free.