the watch...

listen to me...
the ears i touch are stone.
i cannot speak plainly...
they told me i must not, or...
i will steal your agony
like a petty thief in the night...
it means nothing to me now,
your fears are a microcosm of me,
instead i will take your goodness;
you have so little––it will not be missed...
mine is bereft upon the train
eating the track ahead, behind...

i have turned away from mystic steeples,
they consumed my disbelief...
i have refused the sexless, searing my soul
with impotent eyes
stunned by my ancient sterility...
the animal in me was drowned
in a flour sack on a back burner...
my voiceless birth shrouded
by a woman who refused to let me go...
my nightmares return to the womb
devouring my soul in solitary darkness
awaiting the soft, cushioned recess of the ceaseless dawn...

determined to crush me with scorn...
but, i have stolen what i need and refused all i can,
now, i must feed you, from this cell
where babies cry from hunger,
gnawing accusations with unclipped nails of birth...
i have felt need; i tried to imprison the kindness i stole...
but the bigoted anxiety surrounding me refuses to be stilled...
you must take it from me, on this eve...
or she will crucify me with nails rusty from tears...
i have lain waiting, hoping, for release...
the black sun is so anticlimactic.

you would close the curtain
like the shroud of a corpse, a stranger
you once made love to without the pain of loving...
closer, ever closer, upon your knees to listen to the whispers...
which at long last conquer my soul...

doing without...

when i was born, it was missing..
i doubled my search,
looking, looking for it...
but the sojourn proved fruitless...
as one after another declared me barren...
sending me to end of line...
i tried importing it, borrowing it from
souls who stimulated my ego...

i began to imagine a copy, willing it to life...
it evolved into a wretched abomination - you...
as we smother each other...
for you will not understand,
you with eyes,
you see and hear without question...without forgiveness...
i have no filter from your demands,
no blinder for the alley
of your raw, infected visage of doubt.
you hasten my mad rush into exile...
for my house with three walls
allows no escaping vulnerability...

in my yard is a tree,
gnarled and twisted with age,
it remains hollow; but continues to sport green,
while the ancient tentacles beneath the ground
continue to twist around themselves,
moving ever closer to the foundation...
i view it through the planks facing west into the sun...
i cannot refuse the light although my eyes
grow weary from the constant glare...
until the black circle moves to the center...

the unending wind scatters the past
while the tree manages to stand...
even though an enviable branch falls,
spewing its rotten wood across the lawn...
surely the ancient tree will crumble beneath the weight of winter snow and ice...
only then can the search cease
and i can return emptied of contempt....

Hitching Post...

the click of my heels reverberate

along the marbled corridor,
crisp, deliberate movement along a well-envisioned path
where the ultimate prize promises passion and fulfillment...
the echoes rebound from stone walls
and chiseled arches...
i face myself in room after room
with mirrors in corners
angled to perfection, standing like shadows,
wide mouths askew, inflecting doubt...
the dubious doors all look the same
until one opens wide offering
entrance into a wide arena
tinged with the odor of regret
filled with dead dreams and impotency...
i feel at home here...
where you learn to create life with nothing,
to bend the will against the stereotypical wall
and bounce hope against a broken beam,
here is where you find Man holding the key
to acceptance and normalcy, unyielding inevitability...
you can control all eventualities
except him and his sensual grasp of reality...
when finally he turns away, toward something he feels is real, earnest
never understanding that reality ebbs and flows...
changing with the tide of tomorrow,
never to be rejoined in the next feeble attempt to find happiness...
i am undone, again...
returning to long endless list of chances left to be explored,
caves of indifference upon the brow...

jaallen

mirror mirror on the wall...

her reflection is unforgiven
in reverse
reconstituted with course ground glass...
fixed by ancient eyes
backward glances
at regret
blurred images refracted
in multifaceted mutilations;
staring back blankly
for the last time
before the light is switched off...

jaa
prism gates

Swing on inside....

inside, out––up, down––over and across, swinging like mad, trying
to touch my toe on the inevitable crossbar, feeling the wind scoot past me,
my skirts billowing around me as i laugh, going higher and higher
buoyed by exuberance, hoisted by dreams of glory and escape,
while the trees move ever closer and the ground explodes past,
climbing to the summit where birds fly and clouds rest waiting....

life in the half-light...

in throes of early morning slumber, curled in a dream where
sunrise remains frozen under dyslexic clouds...
he hovers momentarily, indistinctly outlined
where earth and eternity swell in anxious anticipation...
she remains tensed, swallowing hard––waiting for his eyes to descend,
acknowledging her existence...to beckon her forward...
frightened this day she hastens toward him without sanction, soon realizing
he retreats as she advances––never to reach that elusive ombre silhoutte...

defeated, the sun erupts, blistering her flesh
absorbing all the moisture from her dream...
like fragile glass inside a sonic boom he shatters abruptly, scattering to the wind...
in the end she never touches him...
holding onto shards of longing and regret, her eyes open on another
cardboard day where images live and die
on flickering celluloid frames of timid imagination, peeking at the real world
behind blinds and curtains...

god punished this rapacious girl who trailed her men in free verse,
serving words of longing upon a liquid platter...
inside a room where flesh dissolves but rampant desire multipies
to be scaled and parsed into tiny cells chaining her to the east wind...
forever denying the moment he backed away;
understanding the meaning behind her inverted reality...
she remains transfixed sending missives to a lover who ceased to exist once she
invited him into her room without a view...

life in the half-light
by ja allen
prism gates

after life...

i seek sanctuary under poison oak leaves beneath an august moon
as errant whistles and cat-calls rebound
over tremulous planks reminding me i do not belong here
where young women strut self-assured, robust,
stuffed with domestic grain, wild oats and cherry blossoms,
fragrant in the wind, poised on the bow,
anticipating the lure of bigger things...

i tremble thrust in the depths of dreams,
in the cotton tail dust of life whipped and beaten down
by winds assaulting the safe shore...
where i once walked naked and unafraid
in the early morning before loons
finished the last encore of their melancholy melody,
when life was free of lines and shadows...

abandoned by perfectionists, rejected by sensual men,
repelled by those hawking immortality,
i fled instead to cold, deep waters where the bottom remained hidden
as secrets of past truth seekers adhered
like barnacles to the underside of an ever-receding point...
i sucked fear like air through a straw straight into my heart
praying that deadly air bubbles not burst my remaining reason...

numb, in time, i crawled onto sands of shifting succor
within rigidly defined pockets where i sifted the tiny bones
of my unfulfilled promise...
sirens of longing shrieked in the distance begging me to
settle down with old dreams and lost lovers...
reeking of mildewed letters and rancid verse;
i re-licked memories of dried kisses and caked longing...

as i rejected the slow descent into mossy memory, i exchanged vortex
for vital shores, subsisting yet in shadows,
in shallows, recycling life through a pipeline, unseen and untouched...
voices that stimulated wonder brokered breathless anticipation,
but unable to comprehend queries, to sense the edge of spiny worlds,
where lust overpowers love, where ego stifles egression,
i overrode rules of engagement, suffering derision by masters...

flipped onto my back to see if i could right myself...
i wrestled to avoid the manic pull of mainstream recalling its burdensome, untenable posture of surrender...now eternally estranged
i whisper words to madmen, strangers in the dead of night,
listening closely for the next clue to my retooled reality...
massaging the text, the fabric of duplicity that allows my
existence inside a world that passed me by...

after life...
by ja allen
prism gates

je suis...

an after-thought at the end of the day
once important matters are put to rest...
an image just outside visional range
captured out of the corner of an eye...

a glimpse recalled as the cat stretches and settles at the
foot of the bed ready for slumber...
circling three times before she finally
settles within the recesses of white cotton...
recognizing serenity has overtaken conquest
and time for aggression has ceased...

a fleeting recollection as darkness descends,
after thanking God for another day...
praying for promises yet to be granted allotting peace
in the aftermath of longing...
before the thought dies and memory shuts down...

do only the promises whispered in your ear or
written in blood matter?
what of those unspoken devotions delivered to you
as acts of kindness and gentle entreaties...
what of tender pleas breathed into silent pillows?
an undercurrent of sighs and silent tears...

the shudder of understanding as the light blinks out
with only shards of darkness to nestle against...
as the wind pesters the awning
and the terrible moon shadows the barren path...
the universal sound reverberates in the silkened bonds
that could not hold against indifference...

her ancient cries wailed, ripped from her soul into the wind,
oh god, oh god, please, let him love me...
blown back into cold corners where no arms could reach,
mocking modular distress arranged in musical encores,
sung over and over again as her head rocks back and forth
in her nightly dance of denial suborned in darkness,

as she begins to claw at the night demanding succor from pain
staring down the ignoble past leading her here
where she pays for impossible sins against imagined hosts
as love is forbidden again and again;

she holds the edge another moment before she sets it down
and shuts the drawer praying for a word, a gesture...
a patch of warmth to bring satisfaction in solitude once again....
the night denies her request for solace,
the emptiness permeates her cover and her blood turns cold
as it courses her mind one last time...

je suis by ja allen
prism gates

subliminal rejection

you ate my heart from the inside out
until there was nothing left
but a shell, a vessel filled with emptiness;
once it was overflowing with love for you...
spilling over with unrestrained excess;
but the depth of my longing was not enough for you
to return my love because you
observed flaws and shortcomings
in my clover-leafed adoration...
you bore into the suspect center
letting distrust eat the sensuous fiber away
until nothing remained but
tenuous tenderness and hesitant warmth...

the end of desire breeds desperation ––
the astonished turn of love
into subserviency and clinical conversation
about weather and duties...
fearing free flowing repartee that allowed
my timid soul to soar with passion’s promise;
for you gave me so much hope that love
would turn to me at last and grant me
satisfaction and fulfillment in the arms of the one
i had always sought...

it grew crystal clear, however, that it could never be you;
because you would never play the fool
for anyone as naive as me
–– as uninitiated as me...
as unworldly as me –– because i did not recognize
the impediment of my innocence...
one so sheltered could never ignite a fire in you...
could never bring you to accustomed heights.
shy, timid souls must learn to shiver alone,
sheltered beneath the stares of sharks
circling in the murky waters of consensus...

hiding now beneath the surface i watch you circle,
waiting for me to surface so you might
continue your practiced postures wondering
if your perceptions were right again...
as they have always been...for in your world there
are no second chances...
in my world there is no hope for one
who has never learned how to replenish an empty heart....

ja allen
prism gates

who's sorry now?

with a crack, the whip backlashes,
ripping the pale flesh of dawn...
so comes the sun, a boil, raw and bleeding
to remind me –– it has come to pass...
the relapse of the sinner breeds contempt,
drifting lust from city to town;
on his back is power –– the tower of the watcher...
his eye on the sun.

an incredible grasp of heaven...
no wonder he smirks
as i work to keep ahead, just one horizon at a time.
the irony of his tongue
bewilders my run up the quick grass of summer;
too hot for retreat,
my feet blur as i watch the orb
grow malignant in my dreams...

the steady rhythm of time clops behind,
always sure...
i've known him deep inside my secret desire...
never escaping the shadows of his long torso ––
always one cloud behind...
no place to run to ––
just a place to escape from,
the soul of my own footsteps;

i tread the decadence of smiles i knew
were too old,
words too rooted in innuendo, rotten silence...
god, has no one left yesterday behind?
stale and impatient for this pursuer to catch me,
i turn and shout obscenities to the acrid wind...
my breath is blown back in my face;
laughter rolls from the corners where no man has known me...

in anger, i turn to discover the pale bird i held
was crushed under my unthinking foot...
the watcher has past me by
and now i follow the trail of his ass
along the narrow pass
where no one sees me or hears
my last whimper of protest...

ja allen
soliloquies
who's sorry now?

cremation blues...

shame shrouds the silhouetted labyrinth of longing,
cloaking all avenues of relief,
revoking any residue of rescue...
the lies and betrayals line the pyre
soon to be memory’s charred embers
denying the essence...
the truth of any moment we shared
built upon fabrication and fantasy
in the urgency of constructing perfection...

as the fire of your anger consumes layer upon layer,
thin filaments of love float away
higher and higher caught in the upheaval
of heat and turmoil pushing the
accusations over the top, boiling out into
an atmosphere where infected
hate breeds its intolerance and spits out
the contempt left at its core...
a sinister stump of insurmountable detestation

the death of trust breeds loneliness;
the rust of exposure that erodes
adoration and love into serial suspicion;
no one returns whole from the
ceremony of disavowal where deafness rules
without arms of forgiveness...
where the only path allows for one alone to tread
back to the beginning...
standing alone in denegation and degradation...

the cavern deepens with each step;
until the firmament gives way under the weight...
i shift trying to see the lines you drew;
but the tears blur my vision and i am lost,
no longer able to discern the Truth you outlined...
my heart only harkens to the love
that connected me to you, now blackened,
tarnished and hardened in the furnace blast
of the hatred fueling this cremation...

cremation blues...
ja allen
prism gates....

killing me softly...

in the background strumming softly, fingers grasping,
caressing the slender neck of his instrument...
he slides his hand up and down, bending the fret,
eyes closed tightly, anticipating that exact moment

when he hits the sweetest spot, allowing its quiet vibration
to sink in - underscoring mood;
hesitating to let the feeling go...
knowing he can never recapture it exactly
the same way again - tantalized by the plaintive note...

she watches his tender mouth - the way his lips part
as he reaches the chord’s climax,
mouthing words under his breath over and over
in rhythm to the internal cadence he feels...

beads of sweat appear on his forehead as he bends
toward the strings, plucking them separately
for a moment inside the soft drum beat and acoustical rhythm...
she waits for the moment when he lifts his almond eyes
to find her watching him make love to her with his music...

his gaze sweeps the cavernous room, observing
but not absorbing pulsating pressures
igniting the flames of passion and pleasure as the piercing
note floats like a roar over the forest floor...

the baritone begs for mercy and release as the
bass pleads for more in a cresting crescendo
with bodies writhing and spinning inside the rhythm
entwined in each others arms waiting...
the lone note slowly subsides as he stops the vibration...

the crowd erupts with applause when the soft melody moves
to the fore - over-arching the electric moment
stilled but not forgotten as connoisseurs stir in chairs
restless, anticipating another high...

he moves back into position, finding a rhythm fragment
he molds into his own carrying it forward
swaying gently, caressing her neck again softly,
his fingers finding corners and curves
making his way up and down the steps of the movement....

killing me softly with his song
ja allen

dead roses...

i think of the words you left me…
i imagine what they meant
coiled inside dead roses, black linen
innuendo curling the edges…
the acidic moisture of your tongue
clipping each syllable…
how you hate what i lack in
substance, surfeit, sensuality…
as you imagine i harbor my center,
keeping you forever adrift
denying you what you seek most in me…

the denouement is silence, a deadly void…
no retribution, no accusations;
vapor over pyres steaming in cold repression,
hissing half-truths hurled from on high.
petals of love once caressing, wrapping us
in secret harmony
turned poisonous, each syllable a psychic prick
exposing jealous asides
as we turn our backs on each other and wait
for the other to return,
knowing the inevitability of never…

love is fragile, beheaded blossoms
bleeding layers of loss,
pressed and pasted inside tissued tiers…
broken promises boxed,
set aside but never examined for shadows,
retching rejection in plastic bottles;
death of dreams and passion acknowledged
packed in trunks – put away…
yet anxiety lingers like left-over aroma,
perfumed saga of madness
in the unending aftermath of denial…

dead roses
by ja allen
prism gates

death throes...

when i look deep into your eyes i see my reflection...
rain streams down the window panes,
wishing away desire…
grief haunts the shadows of your face
as you bend over me,
my tears merely a memory imprint…

slowly you slide the pillow
over my face,
pressing down gently but firmly…
murmurs that i love you
remain repressed and internal…
stilled in the vacuum of your intent…

my empty arms seek to encompass you…
my lips long to kiss you
and whisper darling – as always…
but you do not relinquish;
you press down again and again…
never releasing me from your iron grip

i sink further – my struggles lessen…
i cannot counter the ceaseless pressure
that leaves me muted, unrealized…
my mind cries out for succor
realizing that i do not wish to die…
crucified by your calculated detachment…

i love you with unlimited devotion…
i crave the heat of your passion and the
depth of your need – i wove the fabric of our longing
into this mythical quilt covering us,
allowing the exploration of our blended souls…
you are my eternal heaven, my soul mate…

yet you will this premature death for lack of feeling –
the sensation of touch;
you abandon eternal affirmation and commitment
seeking perfection in another form…
in one you can hold and cleave to;
replacing salvation with sensuality…

nothing will supplant my love for you…as
long as you live the sun will forever fail to
warm your blood and heat your inestimable passion
like the dead love you hold at arm’s length…

death throes
prism gates
ja allen

metamorphosis...

this is what i crawled for -
like a bloated reptile
toward birth?
through days of submerged sun
with no lengthy shadows to lead me;
an inky lizard tracing my lineage
through the maze, running
along trails of ice and scorn…

bumping into waxed walls cemented with hurt and denial
sealed off from memory and reconciliation
without an echo or a crack to breathe,
blinded from refracted doubt;
the chills of pain seemed unbearable…
soft-souled men with cleavers hacked at me
as i passed through sacred and scarred corridors,
my head tucked carefully under my rude appendage…

their sharp tongues bled with words
dropping like spite around me,
running down my back and into my shoes;
but i gather them quickly and stuffed them
under my webbed wing…
the great tar and feather tracks
mark my passing….

and for what? to be borne? to bear my realization?
a transparent film i ripped from reason…
all this to see through my past
and gather my own after birth?
the blood in my shoes is my own now…
i need follow no one’s footsteps;
i leave this age, an anachronism,
born of betters,
evolved to extinction…

the wagging tongues are silent now,
the cave of my passing sealed
like my lips…no one shall follow me…
none haunt me nor question my sanity;
aloft on the wings of my back…
memory melts in flight…

metamorphosis
soliloquies
ja allen

failure in the fifh...

once the storied seal was severed;
the floodgates released;
a penitent soul began combing
wreckage for her lost mind
whose trek toward normalcy halted when
the last sane script aborted.
beyond the windswept shore,
beneath the carrion skull,
she wept as you handed her the final ultimatum
with her head locked in place,
eyes downcast, diverted
afraid to meet yours…

the ebony eagle eyed her white, white skin
transparent within sheltered coves
covered with windblown sand and ash.
her naked frame shivered in dread as
she awaited annihilation – banishment from
the kangaroo kingdom…
age marbled her mind and grayed
her sallow features…her concave chest heaved
with each sharp intake of toxic air…
the poisoned gasp of unrelieved anxiety;
she awaited your final words…
finally recognizing them as you spit them at her,
“you have proven to be unworthy…”

the words pierced like knives and severed her soul…
pointing your rigid finger, you twisted the point
in deep, relishing the intense pain revealed
in her quivering mouth and wet eyes
“you disgust me with your needs,
your desires, your constant whining
about love and tomorrow when you
know nothing about either…
your body is imperfect, your mind is
specious, you mean nothing to me…”
with that you grabbed her hair and dragged
her to the exit and shoved her outside;
she tripped and fell on jagged rocks;
her hands and her knees began to bleed
as she got to her feet and looked back
she expected to see you staring at her with your dead eyes…

but you were not there…you’d turned into stone,
black and lustrous set against the raging sea;
the ocean spray foamed around you as swirling
eddies pulled you loose, your large bulk finally
sinking under the weight of your convictions…

failure in the fifth
prism gates
ja allen

love seasons...

you allow me inside to share your art
sealed within subtle shades of you…
stainless mesh alongside serrated and lethal knives;
bountiful counters and wooden accoutrements…
there is steam, heat and hearty conversation
as you wield words as carefully as
you carve and chop against the grain…
i listen to each word, examining it
for hidden meaning,
innuendo or surprise…
but there is little subterfuge—
just careful honesty and
cautious optimism…

as i observe your painstaking preparations,
your slow and hesitant advances toward me,
always sensitive, yet, unendingly sensual,
i find my capacity to trust enlarge,
sensing a depth never felt before
inside your invitation to partake…
often i feel consumed by my feelings for you…
stilled and silenced by my need to be with you—
at times filled with desperate longing and dreams of endless
kisses and nights nestled in your arms…
within the confines of our narrow world,
no one could love you more…
i realize this longing is mine alone …
that i cannot fathom your secret soul or your
grasp of this fragile reality…

if i discover that i shall never belong in your world
or any sphere that matters to the heart…
then this last door will be closed forever…
the interim is marked with pain and uncertainty
as i await the inevitable;
anticipating the slow silence piercing the intimacy of our
diluted conversation
as you defy the rhythm of our dance and override
my love with caution…
will your inexplicable movement usher me
toward the exit?
out into the cold where the biting wind
chills the blood on my lips…
or will you take me inside and let me
sit at your table forever?

love seasons
prism gates
by ja allen

Judgment

She balks at the doorway hesitant to enter,
Clinging to the rapacious rope
As her hand revisits undulations between each tiny knot…
She worries the surface of the hemp ring,
Her fingers dancing over the uneven strings wet with sweat…

Awfully assembled are ultraistic men who dare her to enter
Where they can edit her slow motion pirouette
Above distinct lines coalesced within subtle shades of hazel and henna;
The pain is distant and mythically muted while the dance
Continues even as uneven music convulses in the background…

She resists the orderly, who grasped her tangled hair,
Pulling her forward toward the spotlight
Fixed on the center point where blind edges converge
Slicing the image from stem to stern
In equal parts portioning the layers of guilt between
Extreme enigmatic vestibules…

In their eyes she senses clarion conviction shattering her assurity
As they fixedly watch her unwind,
The counter clockwise spirals slowing until the moment
Stands still and they step toward her…
Each taking her in a ritualistic embrace; holding tight,
Circling the clinical space in rapid succession…

One after another flashing through the pinpoint glare
Staring into her unblinking eyes,
Forcing the satiated silk around her knees,
Parsing her sighs and mumbled innuendos,
Her holistic hyperbole and annexed anxiety
Probing the intensity of her need
Against the backdrop of languid fulfillment
In the wretched twists and turns
On the placated platinum floor…

They gather the limp body and place her content
Upon a cynical platform labeled salvation,
Tempered by a momentary posture of grace…
As flames leap to the heavens
She takes her final bow, spinning quietly,
Twisting away from the intense heat…

Judgment
Prism Gates
JA Allen

Sometimes...

Sometimes I need to still your rage,
Your petulant annoyance and hurt feelings
By placing my mouth over yours, kissing you
Until you forgive the irritation that drove
Your anger to this frenzied pitch…

Sometimes in the midst of our quarrel I would love
To reach over and take your hand and kiss
Each of your fingertips, all the while staring deeply into your eyes,
Watching for a signal of softening;
An ultimate plea for deep and abiding love…

Sometimes when you make me feel a failure
Because I have not lived up to your expectations,
I want to press my body up against yours and hug you
So tightly that we become one against the darkness
We weave around each other…

Sometimes at night when my loneliness engulfs me
And leaves me weak with anguish,
I long to feel you lying next to me, breathing softly
Against my neck with your arms caressing
Me and your hands traversing my body
Until I turn to face you and wait while you
Come to me and kiss away my tears again and again until the soft light begins
To filter through the liquid shades of dawn…

This love I feel for you is stronger than all the words I possess…
And words are my pride and my power;
But there are times when they fail me juxtaposed against the
Magnitude of this love…this disquieting and demanding love
That is slowly eating me alive while I remain
Powerless to explain it or stop its progression…

My only hope is that it shall be reciprocated – that
It shall be returned to me in equal measure;
Given that remote possibility I cling to hope like
Paint to canvass…
Like a child to his mother’s breast…
Like dewdrops to early morning grass…
I need to believe that the quiver in my soul
At the thought of loving you
Vibrates in harmony with your intense
And growing need for me…

Sometimes…
Prism Gates
By JA Allen

jezebel...

i voided the room…
blank photos barren of face or form;
white-draped paintings complementing colorless walls
stripped bare of essence, of expectation…
emptied of emotion
within echoing silence…no music, no voices, no weeping…
a clock’s faint ticking notes the passing…

surfaces are clean, cleared of clutter and concern…
sterile, starched and solitary,
lying face down with hands lashed to Birdseye posts…
no touching allowed.
no sighs, no abject and self-effacing apologies…
no humiliation…
no pleas for love…
negation – nothing – nullified…

sinking into soft denial and denigration,
where betrayal flutters eyelids and postures
with paralyzing pain and soul-wrenching sarcasm…
she laughs at me
hands on her hips, slapping her knee...
“fool,” she scoffs, “you deserve this, again…”

“he loved me,” i whisper…
”he said he would love me forever.”
“which meant what?” she demands…”six weeks?
look at you now…you are lacerated, ground glass.”
“but he promised!” i scream…
“they all do,” she sighs…”when will you learn?
they cannot love you…”
she taps her forehead meaningfully,
gesturing for me to follow her

now sliding into silky soft recesses where
she leads me; i follow a pattern of concentric circles
ever tighter – growing smaller and smaller
until like the pain of memory and loss,
i slip away…
forlorn and forgotten

she will never forgive my love;
she never has…

jezebel…
prism gates...
ja allen