23
superbia vs. humilitas
You are not her.
your eyes are full of stars and
you walk the earth in her black leather
spreading your gilded message out
upon the tables of many strangers
and I am your Pontius Pilate.
ask me a question
and I’ll read your fortune,
steal your future.
it was nothing much to you.
only my epicenter,
my caged thing.
synthesis is being smothered by
the shards of many broken things.
beautiful lady of the tower:
my sister, brother, daughter.
where is she?
you are not her.
I took you home,
opened my doors to you,
watched the crescendo of
Beethoven’s 9th break over you.
I gave you my seeded egg,
my solar constant,
a splintered third of me,
and you squandered it,
set fire to it until only ash remained,
scattered in your footsteps.
destroyer.
the pulse of her is faded
from this world and
in it’s place:
the silent devastator,
shaven and gravid,
mere driftwood on the tide.
Vanessa Stankiewicz eats the world up
and never changes form. She enjoys the squeaky feel
of your gristleheart between her teeth. She is clenched fists,
whitened knuckles straining against their leather. hollow stoneflesh
and firecore: a geode… each beat piercing itself upon her semi-precious existence.
madness, a stand-in for an extra in a movie gone bankrupt
before the first scene. an afterthought shadow in the limelight. a mope.
She is not your mother.
