He told her,
her love
was a Magnet.
And when he
got too close,
she broke like
a fragment.
So penniless
and indigent,
that those
sacred promises
she kept locked
inside of Her
reel of dreams,
were sold
to a creditor,
for some
shattered mirrors
and ship
wrecked debt,
where she
would starve
in productions
marred by
subduction.
Where she
went to sleep;
she ate her
melancholy fate,
smeared her
pompous sighs,
on her shattered
porcelain plate,
and climbed up
the hill inside
her head,
as she slept
malnourished
In distaste,
swallowed
her standards,
and framed a
hollywood knight.
You could reflect
without her
Mirrors,
but when she
projected,
all you
could hear,
were her infected
vowels taunting
In the ill
fated night.
Her films
Were penciled in
by the strokes
of unfaithful
masquerades that
Scribbled late
arriving loves
until it built
the facade
she inhabited.
And she began
to divorce her
box office bombs,
and sought twenty
marbled plots,
so she could
one day sprout
like a field
of bouquets,
and sell
her disenchanted
soul to morticians,
who dyed
a blackened demise,
In the wholeness
of the atmosphere,
where the soil
plummeted deeper
into grey
inked shadows.
Now she
never sleeps
with dirtied
promises,
battered realties,
and sunken
memories.
Her scripts
never end,
and she directs,
because she is
her sequel.
___
Christopher Ozog is a 22 year old writer who resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan where he currently attends Washtenaw Community College. He has previously been published in Burningword literary journal and the Commonline and currently edits Lavender Wolves Literary Journal. For more information, visit his twitter page
"@expressiveozog"
