Let it be a perfect iron loop around the hemisphere of the world. A testament to a good deed done well, well enough to keep the magicks of the world together. At least, for a short period of time. The cycles of time do not know where they start or stop, so why should humanity? They search for the end times, the beginning times, the what-happens-in-present times. There is no need to follow the sun so closely, when time will shun us when it is ready. The sounds of the passing of life are echoing between the bars, and the tightened rings of time squeeze our arms like a bear hug that will poison you if you squeeze back.
The undead don't linger,
hauntingly beautiful chorus
sung across the african plains
hear them calling your spirit home?
we rest in the hollows of the heart
waiting for the right moment
to come alive,
once more -
a chorus, sung across the african plains
are you ready to go home?
chained daisies, leaning over the balcony
patio of silverwood, pillars of ash
the finest weave of silk and cotton
dashed against the cobbles,
left for the rain under the Sistine
the chants of the sacred ring and die
on the ears of the holy,
no sacred union of light
a wash of mists and turn of phrase,
left me unconscious,
dead before pronounced
how many years did it take
to tell the children,
"This is how you release the beast inside"?
it's just a tunnel,
a tunnel filled with spiders;
don't watch the floors, don't touch the walls
she left the lights off for a reason, don't
ghosts of eras to come
wail and flail
sing the songs of the smoke and coughing
told you not to touch the walls,
here comes the fall --
listening to the signs and signals around me
is so much harder to do
than it is to ignore them.
it is time, they say.
but what if I don't want it to be time?
I know in my heart of hearts that it rests before me,
one step from the precipice that will allow me to be
f r e e
allow me to start healing -
you are hurting yourself, they say.
well, what if I like the pain?
learning to speak is a struggle,
sharing my heart and hurt is scary
but I am learning to be brave,
acknowledging that I am, perhaps,
that I am, perhaps, broken,
but not discarded.
it is okay to strain,
if you remember to grab the hand that reaches out.
it is so hard to r
Prompt: Water sinking into sand.
Easy drips, running between the loss of one mountain turned one million. There are one million people under one sun, and they only choose to rejoice when the future steps up and presents a problem. When do the people know when to stop and think for the world? When do the people learn not to sin on themselves for enjoying what the sun has to offer? Will they ever learn to love themselves and not to disgrace the life they were given? I will rejoice, she said, as the water sank into the sand. There is no higher calling than to expand on that which makes a woman a woman. The yellow brick road does not open to jus
Prompt: Determined footsteps on slick obsidian.
I wish you had stayed in the guest room. My feet treading my floors heavily, black as obsidian, slick where you lay. I can’t be alongside you, I can’t let it flow from me to you anymore, it burns the night and slays the dawn and I am so lost, so lost in you. There are fingertips making me lose my religions, but you can’t leave me alone. I can’t leave you alone, you said you loved me and I said it too, but what does that mean when we can’t be in the same room?
The guest room, the guest room, it was all my fault - I got naked first. You were in the guest room, right
Prompt: A perfect iron loop.
Let it be a perfect iron loop around the grip of the world. The testament of a good deed done well, and well enough to keep the magicks of the world together, at least for a short amount of time.
The cycles of time do not know where they stop or start, so why should humanity? They search for the end times, the beginning times, what happens in current times and what will happen in soon-to-be present times. There is no need to follow the sun so closely, to follow the passing of time so closely, when it will shun us so readily when it is ready. The sounds of the passing of life are echoing between it all; the tight
the freight train in the middle of my head
blows the whistle at your stop, every stop
resting witch face,
pressed against the glass
waiting, waiting for what
I do not know.
there is a film, so gaudy and clouded,
enough to see through the illusion
not enough to hold it back
susceptible to the night,
maybe that’s why Nyx chose me -
maybe that’s why I bleed -
sometimes it is like someone took a knife to the soul
and yes, you cool my des
I can almost see you,
twilight-lit, framed by oaks
tail-end of a wish your halo
lit like a miracle,
shining like a shield;
I can almost see you,
hidden ripples in the ocean
delving deep for treasure
there is nothing surface about this -
toes dipped, plunged;
I can almost see you,
call of the sea,
always the call of the mountainous sea
ah, there -
I can see you..