Do you hear the old gods singing?
Through marble bones
And filtered sunlight
Their semblance,
Cold and undying
Painstakingly chiseled
And forced into placidity.
Yet still they sing.

Adrift, floating on this sea
Solitary, darkest night encircles me.
Unable to see, I feel the
Pea soup fog enveloping me
Craving land, seeking light
Or deeply sought dual toned
diaphonic night-call,
to guide me home.

J.C. honey-assasin 29/05/2019

A hard hit.
      
        Smoke hangs
low, slowly slithering
       from a cracked smile.
Her vexed and vacant
       visage is frozen
for a moment...

and her glossy eyes, glazed
      with frigid gloom, dilate.
Expelling expired air
      she hacks in exoneration,
as if some spirit's
       clutch surrendered
her soul, shaking
       her skeletal frame
in a passionate
       fit of unbridled hate.

She relaxes in her recliner...

       relief.

Its just words laid on the page
how we feel in our own spiel
keeping it real, on love, loss, rage
the penners pen scribing a path
along loves true way or
drawing a laugh
whichever way
you like to play
with word
heard
or silent
soft or violent
building with our lines
strings of projection
seeking depth of connection
reaching in or reaching out
all is positive when ink does spout
its a penners way of working it out
what we write and how we feel
the reader seeing feeling
a different deal
perspective
can be
subjective, reflective, objective
it is for me predominantly
cathartic, a soothe, a salve
at times the release valve
writing, to me,
feels like a biological necessity
either simple or in complexity
pick up the pen
or
reading the lines
trails of emotion
one word at a time.

J.C. 26/05/2019