The CockatriceThe Cockatrice9 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
"Et Viz!" With a crook'd finger the old man did point
Toward a cage, draped strangely with a black damask
From which, a hissing coo did sound
And from which, an occasional crimson-emerald feather did fall.
Intrigued, I did stand and take notice at once
And motioned to see what was there in this cage
Seated in this strange store, this very strange shop
That one would probably forget ever existed
If one passed it by on such a forgettable street
Yet here I was, anxious and awaiting
Of what my eyes were to be quick to tell my brain --
And behold! Lifted, did the ancient storekeep,
With his hobbling and crook'd gait just so
Never LoverNever Lover3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
What life brings upon us,
All those challenges in our lives,
So challenging for a normal being,
So impossible for a Jedi.
Yet I still love him.
He's grown up around it,
And so have I.
For all the things
I've never asked,
We should not, we're Jedi.
But I want his love.
Don't say. Don't whisper.
But I can't deny my feelings,
So Obi-Wan my never lover,
I love you...but I can't say it.
DownfallDownfall6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
Modern MagicThe witch Baba Yaga once baked herself breadModern Magic6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
out of spiders and liars and red razorwire
that was garnished with flowers from the vaults of the dead,
and sweetened with lye from a childs funeral pyre.
It was light as the crisp, cracking bones on the fields
and as sharp to the taste as the ash-scattered shards
that were all that remains of the swords and the shields
of the warrior king and his bold bodyguards.
In a chicken leg hovel at the edge of a wood
the witch Baba Yaga licks the dregs from the spoons
that she used to stir soup, spiced and thickened with blood
that the dying ones spilt from their widowing wounds.