Canvas, canvas Where are her eyes,
what did you do to her features?
All beauty has fallen, fallen to the creaky floor Muffling breath,
you can tell she has fallen from the Earth Into an abstract abyss.
Petula, she is shady,
so grey, and shaded so wrong She is being mistreated,
undressed, and becoming a sad song. Her slime for a smile
is melting her cover girl face.
Designing her curves so crooked, the lie is her mis-shape
Her eyes are wandering dots
allocated to only a certain few
They were left bleeding and burning.
Her scent of rotten perfume.
Causing the slug sounds of dry heaves, dry leaves, dry wind, dry thoughts.
That is not all that became rotten And brought under her guidance.
She lays a dark blue underneath the canvas
Choking on spirits, dust of undeveloped talent itches her throat.
She limps to the door, grabs onto her scarf.
Pulls down the rack
Her sacred seizures
brought on by the progression of panic attacks.
Limping across the room, she’s a banshee She screams
GOD HELP ME NOW! GOD HELP ME PLEASE!
You’ve never helped me then.
My injured mind a sin
When will God help me?
Will I be able to sexualize my name again? My legend again
My glamourous bent laughter
like the wicked wind
Will it return, or will my aching heart –
Keep this soaking in hot wax and melt into a dry bore.
Stuck on the side of a candlestick that has held all her sores.
This is the cuts that have left an infinite pause.
The freezing of her soul, leaving an infinite thought.
It will not form a solid again
The world is your ears, if it is life that we fear.
We will need the art and beauty to be fulfilled.
Let the sanctum be near.
David L O'Nan (he/him) is the founder of Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art, a writer, editor for nearly 20 years. He has pieces found in Icefloe Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, Ghost City Review, Royal Rose Magazine, Rhythm & Bones Press Lit, Cajun Mutt Press among others. His website for publishing older work & others' work - Fevers of the Mind. He is from the Midwest. Kentucky/Indiana area.