But when is a god satisfied? by HugQueen, literature
Literature
But when is a god satisfied?
There is a whisper of a god beneath my bones
aching, ancient hands grasping
to birth itself from my wreckage.
I jostle it back between
the horrors tucked under my heart.
'Perhaps this is what it means
to have a body?'
Its voice hoarse
from years of neglect,
When I tell it 'no' I hear nothing.
The muffled groans of a god
are not silenced so easily.
'I must find my body,
you must give me what is mine.'
'I will give you nothing.'
'Not yet,' it hisses, mauling the forgotten
pieces of me: abuse and fury,
slick on its tongue.
Soon I shake with rage, curses sprouting
from runaway lips: 'I will give you
nothing more.'
It is then, I decide to
r
Where ravens feast on mortal sin,
The world ends at a clifftop inn
Whose greeting is a fleshless grin
From pirates' gibbet at the door.
This lonely structure is adorned
With bodies of those men unmourned,
With sign proclaiming Ye be warned,
And always room enough for more.
Our story, though, tells not of this,
This feared, this known, this bland abyss,
But rather of the promised bliss
A spyglass offers to these men.
For if, once fear has gripped his mind,
Our pirate's hand, then eye should find
The spyglass hidden just behind
The rotting gibbet post, well then...
Well, then he runs, or jumps, or flies,
(That is to say, the fellow tries,)
En
dead men have been telling their tales, whispering
them through the mulch of autumn leaves. the clouds
tuck the stars into cotton beds and this serpent chorus
is their lullaby. their tongues get tangled, the stories jangle
like lost keys, a constant murmur hanging underneath the
lighter dirges of foxes, of crying birds, of headstones quietly
crumbling. I try to be polite, try to hear them out, but it
is a messy choir of regrets. working the graveyard shift,
I hear it all night, the bubbled notes of swallowed sobs,
“my kingdom for a horse, my kingdom for a hearse, my
kingdom in silent ruin now” as husband mourns his place
at th
November's hoary, hollow bones are dry;
A hennaed rattlebag against the sky
Which blithely turns its fading face —
Its cloudy eyes and aging grace —
Behind a brittle veil of lace
Refusing to comply.
No scent of snow, no silvering of ice;
This fallow dithering begets a price:
Unseasonable hazel still
Must feed the Dark, the dying chill.
So let the blood of autumn spill...
December's sacrifice .
My feminine side is death, she tells me
Without emphasis, evenly accepting
The darkness she casts in flickering
changeling shadows
To obscure her luminous true nature.
I need someone like this to light the dark corners
and love me continuously, she says
…But together, I see them as the sea
She is the yin to your yang, I tell her
Each crest lit from within on moonless nights
Water afire caught forever
In moments of opal.
I am caught in a riptide, she says
I feel the weight of responsibility all the time
And so I tell her what I see so well:
Your life will never be clearly defined or easy to explain
But it will be YOUR c
Daily Poem #71 - Armor by OliverBPhotography, literature
Literature
Daily Poem #71 - Armor
A metal behemoth stands tall
in an ancient doorway,
unwavering, unflinching,
so that no one shall pass.
What he is guarding, or why,
he will not say, he cannot say;
Memory has become as patchy and rusty
as the metal hulk that is himself.
Small slits in his helmet
remain dark and lifeless,
and there is no way to tell
the depths blind eyes have seen.
The shape of his armor
may seem functional at a glance.
If you look closer, however,
its ornaments become apparent.
Yet if they have been made or grown,
one cannot truly tell anymore.
And if it was the later, then tell me:
Where does flesh end - and cold steel begin?
Maybe he was once a boy, a