Chandeliers and Cult Leaders
People tell me that I speak like a cult leader
A voice that forces you to turn around and listen
and makes sacrificing your newborn to some
unholy God that doesn’t exist
into a logical step
towards eternity
I get mistaken for Jim Jones
While I’m raiding aisles of a supermarket
Maybe it’s the Kool-Aid and
Cyanide
That gives me away.
Whirlwind Girl with problems afoot
wonder vainly Witch Doctor to see
Of all the voodoo shops West of the Mississippi I walk into hers
She goes all pins and needles
when she sees my face
because of what I did to the rag doll last night
She only needs
bandages:
a cast to heal the holes in her arm;
jailbreak:
a different caste to set her free
She turns the streetlights into spotlights.
She tattoos blank pages till they’re beautiful.
Her face holds the emeralds
That shall always be admired
But I know:
The girl that gazes in dazes at dazzling chandeliers
would have no interest in a cult leader.
