I'm as lonely as a station at night.

The december mist and the moon
peaking high over the iron fence
dulled the low volt into weird halo.

But like bats I reap the rewards of night.

The buzz of the crickets rose in crescendo
from the undergrowths around the track
sounding as unreal as the silent platform
abruptly cropping up on nowhere land
doubtful if ever a train would notice it.

Days are dull actings dancing to strings
yielding nothing to let you know you.
I'm in full vision before the lightless mirror
opening up alone but with the many faces
the dreary day ruthlessly hid from me.

The mist was engulfing the iron railings
and when a distant engine whistled
there was no track or platform
but only the lone flyer hung on the moon
like a bat glued to the scent of night.

Someone please help me set free
The poet that resides within me
It's so hard to put my thoughts to pen
Even if I can now and then

All I can do is write from the heart
But it's difficult to know where to start
When I lack the creative spark
And its tearing me apart

So I fall back on these rhyming tools
Play the fool, trying to be cool
It's hard to write poetry
When I cant even see
What's inside the real me

hot tub bubbles
steam into the cold air
starry night

Written by
Agnes Eva Savich

A battle of life that crept up coy, by stealth,
Strove to banish spirits to bad health,
A deception to corrode devotion to the divine,
With myth that transcend, corrupt the arch of time,
Gods we were, we are, will be
Nothing to fear, all one God, free
Under the sun and the Bodhi tree
Our hearts steeped in Love and amity,
But lies sullied the self, deceive its worth,
But Love will be found even in Loves dearth,
Her wisdom deeper than the Earth,
Warming my heart the breadth of its girth,
The devil sent to consciousness ****,
I'll never be a devils shill,
But choose to live by wit and will,
Condemn their lies with questing quill,
It strikes me we should be hopeful,
For the peoples hearts are forever lustful,
For future unencumbered by cruel dictum,
Freedoms reality triumphs over tyrants fictions.

You’re telling a story of a recent holiday
It reminds me of a funny joke I know about a panda with a penchant for French bread
I launch into it, enjoying your company, engaged in the action
But midway through speaking I stop
-
The scorpion that just appeared on the table is huge
Poison-filled tail arched over its back
It opens its mouth, revealing three rows of teeth
And prepares itself to strike your hand
I want to yell out but I’m frozen in dread
You seem more concerned about me than yourself
No, not concerned – confused
Can’t you see it, the creature right there on the
On the–
-
It’s gone, like the others have before
Back to the secret place in my brain
I know they’re not real
Or, I know they’re not real until I see them again
-
I try to return to the joke I had started but now you’re distracted
You make your excuses – not bad ones, I’ve had worse – and leave
Leave me to the voice of The Reminder
Who tells me once more that they’re coming to get me
They’ve not caught me yet but it won’t take them long