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Michael King Jul 2020
You are not the cold seed you fear in your nightmares,
not a blind thought, caressing the cloak of the reaper.
As you have gazed at the trees at night, so too
have the creatures in the leaves gazed back at you.

‘We do not worship the dead’ they cried, laughing,
and an echo flows past you, barely heard.

Should you join the ranks of the spirits,
crying out your regret in a vain attempt to be heard?
‘You must rebel against yourself’ the creatures warn,
curious what you will do next.

You search for a soft spot within your own self, but
what is there to feel? The wind, the barrenness?

A searing nova of heat threatens to blind you.
Crackled light, followed by pillars of black static roses.
Nothing left now; nothing left to cling to…
but only if you can reach out, you will find a hand.

Well, a multitude of hands, rising from the ground,
covered in scales and pinions, and red as a crimson sunset.

Voices, screeching from beneath the ground,
telling you unbelievable tales of glory, honour,
asking you to grasp their hands and they would show you;
yes, they would show you the way to their own grave.

‘Then the choice is yours’ the creatures tell you now,
‘live or die. We are only eyes waiting for the sun’.

Choices… always a decision to burden you again,
but this is an easy one if you would look inside your mind.
Live or die, walk or fall, strength or tears. Fear is your enemy
in the end. The running ruin of scattered thoughts

Invest yourself in my sneer, if only for a little while.
Maybe you will fade away,  and truly know the scourge of living.
Wrote this year's ago,  and recently edited it with a friend.  Changed the title and some of the body.
Michael King Mar 2020
Each note played. A dirge, flickering
luminous above my haunted apparition,
the wight told of in tales yet to come.

A mist travels low tonight in the tombs.
It holds the grass in stasis, like a frigid
spirit, bitter and rampant.

Alas my dear! Too young. Too bold. Too
naive, and yet... wisdom pours from your
veins in rivulets of silver tongues.

And I, standing by unseen in the barrows,
unable to mourn, unable to bear witness
to your fall from this pale earth... I cry.
A shattering sound of heartache and loss
to make even old wives quiver in their

Ah, my love. My heart. My warmth.

Visit me not, I beg. Do not grieve for me.

Remember the words written on my
tomb. Recall what I told you. These words...

'The wanderer wanders. He waits ahead'.
Michael King Mar 2020
He died last night, our cheerful boy.
His body wasted. Skin draped in veins
of blue and black, and bones which
sought to burst apart his life...

His weakened breath. His stare which
scared us to the core, since he was there,
but not as who he was just two days before...

His mother stopped her tears hours ago...

Ah, my boy. My boy! If only I had seen.
This raging virus, in so much rumour,
yet spread so fast, like unchecked
tumours... and I let you loose, to play
in that sun... to have your fun...

WHY?! WHY GOD?! Is it not right that
you should have taken me? That the
light in my eyes should be torn away,
and I lay awake, delirious, bones
splintering under my very skin...

But as always... God doesn't answer.
He just stares at us, occasionally
poking us into reaction.

He died just last night... My boy. One second breathing. The next... silence.

I will never be able to get that silence
from out of my mind..
Michael King Mar 2020
I can never be the sea in your dreams.
A vastness of life, crushing your peace
as you turn and you toss like the waves
you so long for.

I can never be the mist in your forest.
Never the cooling of your breeze, or the
hush as the grass blows, or the leaves
flit about like elven children at play.

I can never be the wish on your tongue.
A hope come undone. A shackle which
lays waste to your mind, and sullies the
love you hold for the world

I can never be the need in your voice.
A trembling word. A formless sound,
driven to hold onto desperate redemption,
as you scour you soul and your sight.

I can never be the Muse in your core.
As you flay your own skin with words
which will forever be undone by the
barrenness which follows.

I can never be the twin of your soul.
Though we two are connected, by a smile
or a song. We will never be one soul. We will never belong to each other.

I can never be the love you long for...
Michael King Feb 2019
I've seen blood dripping from the willows.

Seen it rolling in drops down the cheek
of a young girl,  not long in her adolescence.

The confusion was the worst part. She
didn't know why she was dying. Alone.
The ****** grass beneath a lost friend
of comfort.

But the white man knew. As he pulled up. his trousers,  a savage grin on his face
as he rubbed her agony over and over...

She lays. Fragile. A heart now gone. A
beautiful life now stolen.

The sun sets as the man walks off.
He is thinking about his wife and kids.

His other thought is how he put just
another slave where she belonged.

A butterfly glides through the willows today.
It floats and lands on the outstretched
hand of a dead girl.

It looks towards her face. Another river
running red. Another of God's
master works removed from life's rhythm.
Michael King Jan 2019
What is a racist?

Wow,  you are so wrong on so many levels.

This is just another hater account. Your
words drip with nothing but hate,  and not
even the pure hate which rots and
corrupts. You speech slander which so
many have already turned into a
monotonous cliché, and the strength is

Like the ticking of a broken clock,  it needs
to be thrown away... the hands of the past
revitalised and used to smoulder love and
passion to change the worlld for the better.
Not for anything which has already come
before so many times like a domino effect.

Your mind seethes... That is a strength I
could use,  but not in the robotic symphony
you so currently speak in mindless refrain
over and over like a badly written chorus.

So I ask you this. Is hatred what you really
seek?  When what you hate is a length of 1
millimeter deep,  and what really shows
through is the heart behind that darkness...

But is it the darkness you really hate?  Or
do you fear the strength of that dark skin.
Do you fear that the new day,  the past
slave becomes the future master? It seems
to me what you really fear and hate is not
the colour of a black person's skin.

But really the cage the white man fell into
when he enslaved them in the first place.
Michael King Jan 2019
Not often do I boast about my own writing... but this one is good. Perceive the darkness...

I long to hold a can of worms.
Corruption in my hands.
A seething rain of gnashing teeth
to filter through the lands.

Or moths to claim the skies and clouds,
in darkness they shall reign.
And silence shall endear the earth,
the fields and barren plains.

I long to view a memory
of blood, and heightened screams.
A wail of such regretfulness,
it lingers in your dreams.

As the days grew cold and quickly
life begins to freeze.
I long to be the life-force that
resembles your disease.

I long to be a single tree,
the last among the ruin.
Or maybe just a frozen rose,
the last on earth to bloom.
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