A PHANTASM IN MOTION

 

A PHANTASM IN MOTION

A walking dichotomy,

she drifts through existence,

a kaleidoscope of contradictions—

blessed with wisdom,

a river of molten silver

spiraling through

the labyrinthine canyons

of her too-young skull,

yet cursed by its echo,

a swarm of obsidian bees

buzzing in the hollows,

their stingers dripping

with the syrup of ancient grief,

weaving a crown

of thorns and stardust

around her flickering form.  

When granted autonomy,

a skeletal hand

offers her a key

of writhing vines,

and privacy unfurls

like a shroud of liquid midnight,

she ignites, uncensored—

a phoenix ablaze

in a cathedral of mirrors,

filling canvases

with strokes of liquefied flame,

passion oozing

as neon rivers

across a sky of shattered clocks,

intensity pulsing

like the heartbeat

of a dying star.

Her tears cascade,

a flock of glass sparrows

tumbling from her eyes,

tattle-tales

that shatter on impact,

singing of sensitivity

in crystalline shrieks,

their echoes

a chorus of unraveling moons.  

Held ransom

within the dome of her skull,

a globe of warped crystal

where shadows swim

like eyeless fish,

she’s brainwashed

by a choir of fun-house mirrors—

their grotesque tongues

licking her reflection

into a parade of melting faces,

mirages that ooze

through the cracks

of a reality unspooled,

propaganda dissolving

into a mist of giggling skulls.

These warped lenses

spin her world

into a carousel

of fractured silhouettes,

where truth

is a jack-in-the-box

springing forth

with a grin of jagged teeth.  

The conscience within,

a clockwork tyrant

clad in ticking armor,

wields words

as bullets of molten lead,

fired from a cannon

of splintered bone,

blasting through

the gossamer veil

of her fragile truce.

It spurns negotiations,

a hydra

with heads of screaming static,

its roar

a thunderstorm

of rusted gears,

drowning

the whispers of peace

in a sea of grinding rust.  

Bound and gagged,

her potential twists,

a moth with wings

of molten gold,

trapped in a chandelier

of dripping wax,

its cries

a symphony

of muffled violins,

strangled

by tendrils

of shadow-silk.

She writhes,

a marionette

in a theater of fog,

strings taut

with the weight

of her own dissonance,

lost

in the surreal labyrinth

of her warring essence—

a prisoner

of her own

phantasmagoric mind.