Within his heart lies a demimonde spirit awaiting release.
Never in the right place, his soul is an asylum
which needs to be reborn.
When he flies high
surely there is a grand hard landing.
Where abomination’s art flies from canvases
leaving dark rites of rituals spreading
through the room.
One can never bare their soul completely:
So, she lights the gray away with candles
saying prayers for transgressions,
pledging allegiance to the sparkling oranges
growing on shelves in cylindrical swirls
of the bitter and sweet.
Hoping for the day when she can be herself
for those she loves.