The Aristocrat

Fluttering teacups. Caustic uppers.
Supper in the flaccid clouds.
How can one endowed with such elastic sinews
bear to stew in such formality?

He turned to brutality
as a way to exorcise those old,
unwanted feelings bundled in his skull
like sheaves of wheat. A harsh rain
was beating against the exterior of the house
which held evidence of his wicked crime.
He bided his time by the mantle,
its burnished surface reflecting expertly
the delirium writhing in his eyes.
He bit into his tongue
until the taste of blood became
too much to bear. Candles ranged
along the walls flared up in livid,
accusatory poses. And he –

he dropped like the petals
of so many roses
from his menacing poise
into cold oblivion,

the beating heart contained
within the floor. He reached for a door
where there was no door.
The room contorted to reflect
the shape of his soul,
the whole disordered despair.
He bared his teeth. Thin laughter
trickled from his vibrating lips,
as he steadily loosened his grip
on the rope which kept him
tethered to his dream.

-r. miller

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