Asthma Of The Subconscious

Dedicated to my shining star.


The shadow is a two dimensional saviour, but has no
purpose when its owner can barely see his own reflection.
An open soul; so she's told, that holds an affinity for
rock and roll. It's always been the curse of the poetic

hearts to become intoxicated by their own whispering
emotions, and to lose themselves in bittersweet migraines.
Headaches that can only be willed into remission with
careful re-stitching of the psyche, and daily meds

administered via lips only. Poisoned magic becomes trapped
behind tired ribs and pillow soft lungs, and must be
purged from the system before time is allowed for the black
ink to seep through the skin, and scribe into the eyes.

A skilled healer can see every single stain and scar laced
upon the flesh of her patient. A fallen, panicking angel
is a terrible sight. It is an awful process to lead such
a pretty creature to his bed; to soak infusions of jade

and iodine into his fractured wings. Surgery without
anaesthetic, only delicate bedside manner and satin words
of reassurance. He entrusts her with the key to his sickly
heart should he become afflicted again. Anxiety is asthma

of the subconscious, and depression ties the alveoli into
tight knots. Congestion of the soul; his emotions wheeze
with every masquerade. A skilled astronomer, she loves to
admire the constellations of his flesh... he is her star.

Beautifully sweet.

I believe my silence is fitting.

Thank you, Panda. And thank you Inari

Thank you