A chill of Styx water runs through my heart,
Arrows cannot reach it, I will not let them.
To do so is to die,
Please understand.
Shots of Phlegethon stopped reaching my tears,
Too many times have I gone mad from it's flames.
I would rather forget,
All that icy pain.
When I die from this curse of long-lost touch,
Send me to corrode on the banks of the Lethe.
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 2:07 PM UTC
What is the flower you were born into?
The scarlet carnations of the new year?
Perhaps the daffodils of the birth seer?
Is it bright honeysuckle you're drawn to?
Or does the warm aster of death make do?
Maybe even narcissus and it's leer?
Well whatever the case, it is not mere,
Character, but rather how love moves so.
You see, my flower was the wilted rose.
I watered that thing and tried (I really did),
Yet nothing came of it, and so I stare,
At the gnawed hole in its roots,
At the salted and maimed dirt,
At the leaking watering can,
And the wilted roses.
Here's what they don't tell you:
There's a dead space in the flowerbeds.
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 1:01 PM UTC
I tattered your Yellow Wallpaper,
And trenched along your Groves.
To find that little special place,
Creeping amidst your Prose.
I scouted your Lands in search,
For what I found most dear.
But frankly I never found much,
That Gem was always there.
So as I walk my fickled Wood,
I realized something good.
I really never understood,
And I never really could.
Light Eddies And Venerable Elm,
Meant Everything.
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 2:32 PM UTC
Every morning a beaming carmine penetrates my brain
unbeknownst to their perilous call
a smiling bird and a white heal all.
Violates me at my eyes
from green chasing lies
from wicked placed disguise.
Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the stalker of stalkers that haunt my pre dream routine.
Every evening a lustrous crimson punctures my lungs
unbeknownst to their unsafe swath
a quiet bird and a paper moth.
Vexes me at my eyes
from yellow following lies
from haughty placed disguise.
Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the lurker of lurkers that submerge my pre dream routine.
Every night a hazy velvet pierces my heart
unbeknownst to their loving provider
a dead bird and a snow drop spider.
Visits me at my eyes
from red moving lies
from stoic placed disguise.
Pencils of light at three trips
the finest sliver of silence you can imagine.
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 8:35 PM UTC
In the past month have you set up a shrine,
Where you were simply looking for a sign?
Just get Extra-Death™!
For those who took their last breath!
Now at the low price of 5.99!
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 10:48 AM UTC
On a broken hill,
A sad smile with two slit wrists,
Eats at his own flesh.
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 9:43 AM UTC
You see it hears like rain that never stops pounding Light out the tires on sleching ground step stop skip to the next Light tires of holding the umbrella to rain on see gray dark squares shining yellow and my eyes my eyelashes my eye-irises are now cold gales of hair my eyes smart to Light tires on the ground lay shadow rain daps head my hair tires of the wind Light stroke of metal lines the tree tangles my eye my hair in my tongue daps of Light on road tires which looks and hears and smells and feels and licks like rain you see.
Feb 18, 2020
Feb 18, 2020 at 2:49 PM UTC
I can faintly remember that day;
We had been driving for hours.
Finally, I could hear it:
Loud supersonic booms and echoes.
I got out, and I could feel it.
The suffocating air,
The scorching, burning heat,
And the radiating, bright light.
Overhead I could hear the loud birds,
Singing shrill, sharp shots of glee,
Of a bright, midsummer's day.
Slewed, silver starlight wait in their eyes.
It was a calm, crystal clear day.
The canvas, unblemished.
The horizon was clear,
Showing off rays of the first light.
The gold, soft and lumpy heated ground,
Littered with trinkets, waiting,
For the taking of loved hands.
Drinking the horizon of pale light.
We had climbed over soft, yellow hills,
To reach our location.
The blooming, frigid palms,
Creating a smooth, gentle breeze.
Realization of the burnt dawn,
And suddenly…
I can remember.
Feb 14, 2020
Feb 14, 2020 at 9:40 AM UTC
Springtime field flutters.
Blood splattering the paper.
The rush of the reeds.
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 10:08 AM UTC
Feeling my fettered heartstrings,
Velvet lips can't nourish all their gentle fibers.
Instead the touch fragrance hair tufts transcribers,
The wisps knitting her lids flitting my wings,
Fierce ride, curved my floored felt scar into playthings.
A wound no-feet long, untraceable inscribers,
Who cut miles deep, hellish hateful imbibers.
Laugh, you dressing gashed daylight under the rings,
Of your fingertips, for we were one in the same.
Neither caress nor touch nor glance,
Overlapped either pining silhouette's frame.
But now it's not the same.
Now caress and touch and glance,
Are all within our flame.
Feb 3, 2020
Feb 3, 2020 at 6:10 PM UTC