Eagles made of stars shower distant cities,
Like acid rain, without reprieve.
Drenching skin, and hair, and bone.
Ripping flesh from soul, from spirit.

Bodies swaying, but never rising.
Mothers crying and never healing.
Fathers falling and never praising.
Children calling, but never answered.

Shards of glass, and stone, and bones.
Pools of blood, and tears, and hearts.
Heaven so distant, and hell so near.
Angels of destruction; angels of hate.

Bodies are charred, and black, and spent.
Covered in soot; bathed in the lives of others.
Born into death, teeth are breaking.
Mouths hang open; smiles abating.

All doors have been shut.
All avenues are cut.
Locked in a box with stars.
All for what?

.
O' Widow of the Worlds, embrace thy darkest hours.
Breathe evenings cold perfume, recall woods and flowers.

Glide proud amongst thy memories and foggy dreams,
pause pensive, gently pick a black rose for thy hair.
Give tears, settle 'pon thy fate as destiny deems,
walk through the mist and dissolve into the air.

At peace 'pon thy darkest hours,
sigh alone, a door to close,
sadness sleeps for all eternity,
the silent death of a rose.


© Pagan Paul (10/10/17)

Two handfuls of sky
Seeking frantically
Near the hills and sea
This is me

When the sun is off
Harsh sounds reign in cough
Sick horses at the trough
I sit with keyboard and a cup of tea

Look out of my window
Looking for a radiant yellow
In sweet air they grow
I am on my toes
Of them I choose two or three
From darkness some others join merrily
Stanzas emerge awesomely  

I get them on the tablet screen
Scarlet indigo and green
Sentences in sheen

The judge coming out
When says, fine, now let it sprout
They are good no doubt

I set them free
Wait for the touch of a sea
Two handfuls of sky seeking in glee

This is me