Why is my destiny so exquisite with tragedy?
And why do I no longer care?
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.