Gothic Child

      She's so gothic 
      another black rose child 
      whose forgotten how to smile. 
      If you tell her to lighten up 
      she will never trust you. 

      Each day is Halloween for her. 
      She paints her face pale 
      as a ghost by a winter moon 
      and dresses dark like the night 
      then goes about the day. 

      She stays up late into the night 
      mesmerized in some world 
      reading Edgar Allen Poe 
      while her guardian 
      a cat she calls 'Crow' 
      watches over her. 

      She swears that he saved her life once 
      in a previous life. 

      She pierces her flesh 
      in mysterious places 
      with jewelry 
      for the thrill  
      for the pain 
      to shock herself out 
      of a cold numb dream. 

      She's an artist. 

      She paints pictures of black 
      'cause on some deep  
      sub-conscious level 
      it reminds her of where she's from 
      and where she'll be going back. 

      She's fascinated with vampires 
      and blood. 
      She wishes she could be one. 
      One of the dead ones 
      that live forever. 

      For if Death would sit beside her 
      she'd gaze into Death's eyes 
      like a long lost friend. 

      If Death would be her lover 
      she'd savor every moment spent 
      as if it were eternity. 

      If Death would come inside her 
      she could know real peace 

      and if Death landed on her shoulder 
      like a mosquito 
      she'd squash it dead. 

      She's a gothic child... 

      You gotta love her soul. 

                   © 1998 by David Bozzi

          A Dream of Me and You           

      A black robe 
      with a skull mask 
      emerges from the shade. 

      It's me. 

      I move in the stealthy 
      quiet of night methodically. 
      I can hear you breathe. 

      I draw nearer 
      and bring my face close 
      to yours' as you sleep. 

      I watch you 
      through my disguise 
      and think of all the times 
      I've smiled 
      when you've made me cringe. 

      A cold chill stabs the air 
      and betrays the warmth. 
      It's personal. 

      I resent how 
      you've broken your way 
      into my head 
      like a dream character 
      trespassing. 

      My pent up rage breaks loose 
      like an angry beast once caged 
      as I slice through the illusion 
      of my loyalty to you. 

      My dagger punctures cleanly 
      and rips while you dream. 
      The first cut; your throat 
      so no one hears you scream. 

      Then I penetrate deep 
      into your heartbeat thrusting.  
      Pushing. Twisting. 

      No one is awake. 

      Warm blood drips 
      from the knife 
      on blood-soaked sheets. 

      It's done. I'm numb 
      with a bizarre mixture 
      of ecstasy and madness. 

      Perhaps I was merciful 
      to do it this way. 
      You didn't even feel the blade. 

      Quickly I gather your jewels 
      (some I gave to you) 
      so it looks like someone else. 

      And as the adrenaline tears in 
      blood pressure screams 
      and I lose the scene  
      wondering what you dreamt...                             

             © 1998 by David Bozzi