Molten

Gold dripping from the ceiling,

a puddle on the floor,

step into it, unfeeling.

Follow the torrid path to

walls of castles, their towers,

some of the bricks askew.

Simple architecture, 24-karat gleam,

but they hold presents and pasts

and futures and dreams.

Which to trust, which to beware,

sometimes you trespass,

a trying affair.

Around some there is night,

unknown, seductive,

but a void of light.

Some brim with people, yet utterly

alone,

their cries hidden immediately.

They have so much to say,

but they keep to themselves,

icebergs floating

in the harsh light of day.

Trapped in the scabbed ribcages

of time bombs; one move,

you pay your wages.

They seek relief in  e m p t y,

in silver,

in indulgence,

in poisons.

The ice hides

in the crevices

of windows,

brought in

by the tides

of people,

of thought.

Then there’s red on the inside,

scarlet rivulets through

the veins of the towers,

hidden from the outside.

On the inside, disarray,

disorder

syndrome

disease

dismay.

They are tired of being tired,

the invincible let down their walls,

only warmth they desired.

Lactic acid burning in every fiber, spliced

with the gold and red,

turning to ice.

Yet the wings, shattered and fragmented,

encircle a spine deformed by stones,

and the warmth is augmented.

The gold trickles from the ears

of dreamers,

collected over years.

Turns from a puddle into a sea,

surrounded by darkness,

the kingdoms like floating debris.

You are always on a stage,

create movement inside the ribcage.