Frankenstein’s Angel

Detatched features,

Faces, fingers, scalps, and skin

By silver knives and blunted hammers

Stripped from many and made whole again.

The Human Ideal and depraved’s obsession,

Perfection in a women’s form,

Assembled with passion, ardor, and precision

From stolen bodily possessions and one pair of volunteered eyes.

Her mother blinded, her father fanatic,

The night dreary when she came alive,

The mind of a girl with the body of an angel,

A gift to the world, the artist’s nightmare and scientist’s prize.

By design, incomparable to any other being,

At sight, overwhelming one’s sensitivities to shape and light,

And having glimsed her, any obscurrance of her face induced pain

In the heart so profound whole crowds were made to cry.

Musicians and poets wrote nothing more but about her,

Some despaired knowing what they could never have or be,

Multitudes gathered daily to witness and adore her,

All the while laying cash and other gifts at her maker’s feet.

The living embodyment of faultless beauty

Drew wealth and satiation into her father’s hands,

Admired by all the world for merely existing,

Her mother, whose eyes she had, became her only friend.

The crowds, left outside constantly yearning,

Grew more restless, depressed, and frenzied every day,

Bewitched every moment she allowed them her presence,

Dead to all pleasure while she was away.

In time, sight alone wasn’t enough to ease their torment,

And an unprecedented emptiness stole their collective minds,

Demands to be loved by the being that was perfect

Grew from callous whispers to a full-blown battle cry,

But the angel, who was a girl, hardly loved a soul,

The consuming gaze of strangers seperated her from all

But the mother, being blind, who saw her without desiring

And the father who idealized her as art’s true and final form.

The final levy broke, and the people flooded their home,

Cornering her in the attic where she’d only recently been born,

The crowd shouted unanimously for the love that they deserved,

With guns, torches, and hungry eyes prepared to take by force.

There is no way to love anyone by choice, the angel knew,

But when so many want your life there’s little you can do,

Ascending down the letter, every voice was silenced,

Scalpel in her hand, she did what was required.

She slid the steel past her cornea and cut the optic nerve,

One after the other and offered them to her observers,

“My mother’s eyes are the only gift I ever truly loved,

Take them and know I’ve given you all I have.”

Torches were dropped, legs fell away as if broken,

A stifled cry echoed loudly and gave way to screams unrestrained,

Many shots were fired into the temples of their holders,

And many more gave in, weeping into the devouring flames.

The house erupted, the blinded angel bleeding, motionless,

Suffocating, sweltering, and without thought of escape.

A pair of arms found her, above them all the most devoted,

The eyeless mother, holding tight as the world fell away.

Ritual

We put our heads together,
Hands to shoulders and thought to thought.
We broke ourselves open
And the weight of our anxieties was forgotten.
There, in a dark room,
We circled around a single candle.
There were no tears,
But the release was potent as heavy sobs.
A brief euphoria
Shared between joined hands in confinement.
Alive together,
Woken from our obsessive woes.

Featured

Psychalgia Exhumed: A Poetry Book

A collection of 20 poems by Sanya E Walma.
Sometimes our potential for growth and our ability to understand ourselves is buried beneath internalized fears and repressed feelings.
Untying the mental knots that distort our true selves requires the willingness to embrace our most intimate anxieties.
This collection of poetry is based on unearthing innermost troubles, finding beauty behind emotional disorder, and learning to express oneself honestly.

Download here as a PDF.
Or order as a paperback from Barnes & Noble or Amazon.

Sensitivity To Warmth

I’m tired of being Imoveably cold

But Warmth doesn’t seem to care for me.

He prefers hearts easier to reach

Over those guarded under lock and key.

Real invigoration is so infrequent

It melts me beyond the use of coherent thought.

It finds me at my most relaxed

And shocks my senses back to full alert.

A warning; If Warmth can reach you,

So can all sorts of volatile expressions.

Good intentions can’t diminish

The fragility of your intimate dimensions.

Born to grave sensitivity

I easily shudder in the light of friendship,

And comfort myself solely

In the snowy luminance of reflection.

Eyes After Everything Ends

The houses rotted,

The roads cracked and slowly eroded,

Power lines toppled,

And trees retook the place of grass.

Lives had finished,

Completed, but never replaced,

Leaving everything behind

For the mildew and quiet to claim.

Everyone had gone,

And they left a fragmented remembrance,

The ruins of excess

And poverty adapted into shadow palaces.

 

When everyone goes

I only hope there will be ghosts,

So someone could see

The beautiful remains of our failures.

 

The arguments died,

All sides are eventually silenced.

Grief lost her way

Without any survivors to guide her.

Indecisions without resolve,

Like half-empty beds and unfinished poems

Revert back to objects

Removed from anxiety and desire.

Landscapes of thought

Retaining echos without sound.

 

When everything falls

I hope to see what happens then.

To see how unknowable

Our intentions and dreams become.