Solitude in all its glory
fills the air in sorrowful story
All afflicted, one tale like the next
of children aging, beloved departing,
lovers no longer to be caressed
For solitude is that which steals all joy from our young,
and solitary is the black-cloaked figure
that steals warm breath from once-full lungs
And solitary is that which leaves only death whence it comes.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
Empty homes with dying fires
the fall to follow Rome,
a light to burn the empires.
Torn children's clothing piled on funeral pyres
Abandoned hallways, crumbling spires
Unorganized, unreliable, unfit to be king,
solemnly awaiting what his future will bring
The frost and wilt, deepening their wound until spring
His decade of rule, never sparing anything
Watch the skyline, now kiss it lightly
find the final flower and hold it tightly
Petals will fall, plunging into the universe of the unsightly
Mourn its beauty, and pray for a world more sprightly
Scaffolding in ruins, hallways lonely all along
The final moment of the crown,
a serenade of sparrow song
A lively toast to a drawn-out life that went all wrong
Wounded always, but shallowly at most,
'Life', as they say, 'must go on'
Towns rebuild, and castles to destruct
Earth's natural tears drown and erase ten years' bad luck
Winter melts away, and the world's icy soul thaws at last to interrupt
The cold, once widely-told chattering of a kingdom corrupt
Corroded statues, no more laughter at all
A new man settles in, the trigger for the downfall
The world freezes again, crops iced once more, and the livestock dead in every stall.
If there was ever a valid point to living a life,
the people could never recall
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
*I stared out the window
and looked out to the sea
to see that my wave of nostalgia
had been waved back to me
I swallowed the ocean's cruel reciprocation
like I swallowed my tears
both were salty and bitter,
reminiscent of all the nights where I had drowned in my fears
My sinking ship, are you still out there,
and are you coming home today?
and if you return from your world of blue,
will you leave after you get what you need, or will you come listen to all the things I have to say?
My love: the world is lonely, and the sky is crying
not even the flowers bloom in full content
the smiling sun is all we have left to mask the pain behind suburban gates, but it fails to assuage my only complaint:
when you stood on the shore and said that I was your anchor, you never told me just what you meant
Where did you go,
and do you even still care?
oh, my sinking ship, no matter how far you stray,
look to the waves and the sunset for me, for my heart is bound to meet you there*
-n.a.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
She is more than just when she is here or when she is away
she is night in a world where it could never be day;
The force of the world, the force of the blowback when the earth would sway
Warning the burn to stay away,
Small fires on fire
burning lives on a pyre
the raven above, the condemned below
She shouldn't have whispered
she ought to know-
the ink on the page is blurry, though
a journey in its depths
A world knee-deep in thick India ink
now sunk up to its breast
And before the drowning came the will to swim
and before the fall, the flight
An eternity trapped in flesh captured in the rim
torture and prison between love and plight
And, oh, what a treacherous night,
for when the wind blows,
it blows without reach,
nor wane nor warn
to the furthest beach
Where the moons kiss the stars
closed care on opened scars
The wheels are turning in no direction
unaware that they are part of cars
So to the human; the universe
a play millions of times rehearsed
and while they speak of beings more well-versed
we bury our young in cloths and parties, cold, terse-
Terse is the judge when its judgement is
by the sun or the sky or the problem kids
What not to see is all what more to say
no use to wipe the ink away
and so the book is thrown
Jostled down the stairs and out and into the hands of people with and without care
The way the wind so shakes the shack
a brick on the bay, a structure of that
which begins and ends
with laughter and then with death to old friends
The story that lived, the story that died; the one which failed to record who had survived
The end was there on a ghastly ship
the crew amongst which floated gauntly
and though they were brave,
their souls were concave,
And the depths below them read as their new heights
New heights for souls injured in injurious fights
the plight of such was love and light,
and she was not the day, for she was the night
-n.a.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC