Son nom est Clarice
She squawks,
she squeaks,
she sneaks inside
where she resides...
angrily...
hatefully...
spitefully...
rightfully
until she has lost
the map she used
to get here.
'Where am I?' She screams.
'Who am I?' She asks as she careens
off the cliff of her mind
and into the spiral of
chaos...
Her arms flail wildly
as she chomps at the bit.
Her legs wander aimlessly
as she bites at the flesh...
The heart she takes,
the soul she rips,
the glass she breaks,
'neath her fingertips
are all but one
and none of any--
the blood of the son
and the tears of the many.
What will she do
when the lights have
all fallen
and the angels have all been
turned out?
Where will she go
when all she knows
has been turned into nothing
but dirt?
And when God Himself
stands before her
she will shake her lazy fist
and still will insist
that He is dead.
She wants us all
to hold her mind up
for her and
walk her feet
off the plank
plunging her-
wrongfully-
into the sea.
But some of us know
her motivations and
intentions
are as transparent
as the fluid
she oozes.
And the motions she makes
with each breath that she takes
is against the grain
of our nature...
In the movements of her
wicked dance
she tries to sexually
enhance
the experience of her
audiance
but to no avail
she still fails
to remove the twine
from the hay bale
and create with each strand
a chaotic bandstand
much like the one
in the palm of her hand.
The storm is coming
the thunder pounding
the rain is hammering
and the drum is sounding.
The march begins
one foot to the end
of hell's fiery rest,
one line to tow
until the blessed
all stand and chant
in grandois unison
"Beat the bear
until your fists are bloodied!
Scratch the fat rat
until you're bruised and muddied!
Eat all the empathy you can hold
and dress in your garment
made of mold!
Come walk with us
into the fire
don't be afraid of our
souls' burning pyre
as birds we sit
upon the wire
high above the love
and mier."
