A fortress with faded colors,

almost monochrome,

had an enchanted spell on it.

Filled with sleeping dust.

It put my dreams and hopes into a drugged, dragging nightmare

that eventually made them fall

and become one with the floor as vines grew over them.

They were sinewy, incestuous,

overflowing with affection for each other.

Totally disregarding their ill-effects

on others.

Crushing wasted dreams

into ash. Unrecognizable.

The green from their veins

slowly climbing out of them,

desperately seeking light.






For the sun made them blossom

and loosen their reigns

on their victims.

Shadows and cold

made them crack.

I was breathing there,

not living,

stuck in a tower

with no view.

Everyone thought I had it made—

in this palace.

Palace is in the eye of the beholder.

I was beheld.


An Escher drawing—

just when I thought

I had left, I was there again.

The courage to leave,

felt like fear.

And so I remained.




A soft morsel in my mouth—

and all Hell breaks loose.

They would call it sin,

but the burning warmth

that follows chocolate, melted,

feels like Heaven.

The plainest thing is transformed

into an illusion.

A mirage—

a muffin, so seldom allowed,

tastes like cake.

Bread is disastrous.

A distinct sweetness.

A reflective road

when slicked with heat.

I am boiling, covered

in need for what

I am depriving myself of.

The weight won’t lose itself



I would turn around and eat

the breadcrumbs,

leading to my destruction.


This is not the way.

Something so seldom seen,

a stranger’s home

so decadent, begging me to relieve it

from its burden.

Gingerbread walls buckling.

I am drunk

by its hypnotizing calls.

I bask in its glorious beauty.

A sweetness-avalanche

buries me.


I deprive my emotions sustenance,

because when they breathe,

I cannot.

Like a parasite,

they feed on me.

Even as a single cell,

they would replicate,

split without caring about

the pain they cause me.

I feel them like a hurricane,

when I try to feed myself.

They explode within me.

An atom bomb,

my insides no longer existing,

so all I do is gasp.

In a hurricane,

I feel blurry,

those jarring

pointed passing shards of


nicking me as they

swirl around.

If I removed

my need to eat,

I would feel less.

A little numb,

a little blind,

hibernating in sleep,

detached from everything—

even those soft kisses from the wind.

All or nothing.

No desires from which

to choose.

The power to differentiate

is splintered.

Until sustenance.





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