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You were an elegantly dressed
and well spoken monster
in your top hat and white gloves
All around you, candelabra on every surface…. with hot wax dripping
lazily like slow, greasy tears
sliding down a powder-pale face…
You looked out through gauzy curtains
which hung from a four poster bed
you relished your dark gifts and admired the ostrich plumes that decorated your coffin, your other place of rest….
Outside, relentless steamy rain and endless pain and cravings that couldn’t be satisfied by pathetic mortals, no matter how hard you tried….
Inside, an inferno of destruction and
heavily fringed curtains ablaze
Oil paintings melting like crayons as
another unsuccessful attempt to burn the souls of the damned….
Frenzied piano playing until the keys began to splinter
Corpses hidden amongst the dolls began to reek, began to leak in the New Orleans heat…
The yearning for the scarlett life-force of humans and animals, tormented your mind and soiled your fine clothes….
A bloody interview, fascinating, informative and deadly and such
a long tiresome existence for the un-dead.

Sonya Young

Sonya Young

Until about 2010 I did not even read poetry, let alone write it. Then one day some words came through and since then poems on many different subject matters have 'wanted' to be written. It is a great outlet and cheap therapy I guess.😄

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