We move on,
Grinding our heels into glass,
Letting the red print the paper-thin
As we walk onwards..
We cough, shredding air in our lungs
Hand on the trigger as we shoot
Shots till the sunrise.
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 6:07 AM UTC
milk hair, milk clothes
a world painted in thick hues of the very same cream
the whirr of a printing press on blank paper
The flutters of fragile wings are perhaps all but enough to bring a child to hasty tears.
A mirror bought to
of echoing frailty,
a chord at its highest piercing note.
The crescendo before dusk.
A
pair of hands encased in its own
Who
polite and light on the tongue,
a vain blind
no less
Barred fingers in cells of clickety clackety letters and fonts of paintbrushes or the odd twitch.
It prays.
Soundless noise.
not a pin-drop
not the screeches of bosses
And when the paper is stacked high on coffee refrains and static routine.
It screams.
The mirror.
Cell blown to bits
Custody broken
Mirror tattered
refunded at a bitter price.
Blank as snow and crisp as winter.
Gone like snow the very next morning.
But ever so physically there.
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 7:22 AM UTC
In my hand I hold a book,
memories clashing, thrashing, collapsing at every verse.
To where I meet my fellow adventurer, traveler, merchant.
Oh are you friend or foe?
I ask at every letter, word, line, paragraph, page, chapter...
Scour every verse ever written, details of the past.
Yet they'll often end the same.
A frame to a world,
etched by fledglings of paper and ink.
Imperfections that shatter, clatter, splatter
every notice of human touch, hunch, crunch
But bunched together, sewn together
to reform and perform such a broken, silly tale.
Kindling hearths
as bluebirds fly.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 4:51 AM UTC
My chest is a cage,
a symphony repeating its first line,
as flower petals fall from my embrace
as I have cried beneath the sky.
While I hop to my feet the cage that bursts of flowers begins to plant anew.
As these feeling blister inside of me
cold sores that I cannot ignore.
As he passes by the cage shrinks around my beating heart.
My pulse a pure cacophony,
a crescendo now,
as lilacs froth within my chest and a forget-me-not petals chokes my every action.
Petals in a flurry oh how shall I ever control this heart of mine.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 7:29 AM UTC
What are kings, if not selfish cruel creatures,
thrones built of sacrifices,
the blind lambs of faith.
Their misdeeds,
their whims being the guiding path.
Will, paving the concrete path of others.
But,
though brow beaten,
the knight cries.
"To what shalt we be if not without the guidance of kings,
kissed by the angels of the holy,
blessed beneath the stars?
What of the olive branch they provide?
Of the prospering and the peasantry."
Oh,
how they cry within their armoured shells,
suffocating under their oaths.
Unspoken promises to their god,
their king,
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 4:45 PM UTC