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Will the dunces think of sticks and stones
And holler psalms of broken bones
When the cataclysms to be wrought
Is on all our race of dunces brought?
It’s not the bash of holy fail
But it’s the lifting of the veil

It befits, at length, the mortal brood
Which believes, as will, for sake of solitude
Stamping hooves with sing-song hearts
Scoffs and sighs through which joy darts
Is not the worth of regal crowns
Cast aside when a gift to clowns?

Is not the great-guard off his rails?
Nuanced, the lifting of the veil

And nuance itself, a pearl before
Swine who rut, in a squealing abhor
The smoothness of it, the spotless gleam
Or the idea of perfect the perfect deem?
All the while, swines they wail
That the green is fake in the saintly vale

For rutting they seem not be concerned,
Amid brazen wiles of burning and yearned
A heedless pit tails a brambled row,
For the virile seeds of what the puerile grow
And what of the openness of the seeds?
For a vine that tangles, or one that feeds?
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I used to be comfortable with the idea of loneliness,
And for the most part welcome it as normal.
Solitude was my high ground
And I didn’t need anyone.
Self sufficient, functioning.
I was strong.

But then you showed me it didn’t have to be that way.
I didn’t have to ‘survive’ alone.
I wasn’t an outcast.
I wasn’t alienated.
I was loved.
And could love.
You showed me that I could be accepted.  

And then you left.

And loneliness is so terrifying.

And I am so scared.
When will loneliness become the norm again.

When will this pain end.

Why wouldn’t you stay.
I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)
love is our only
reality so treat it
like the only one

6:15 PM
 Feb 2019 Avery Nightshade
 Feb 2019 Avery Nightshade
ting is
your           life
thro             ugh
a ne           edle
and         if
you sew
(read forward, then backward, line by line)

I ran.
Not knowing what else to do
There was so much blood on my hands
It was mine
The kitchen knife
Caught in my chest
Consumed by
I was heightened by
But running on
Wasn’t enough
While trying to stay calm,
Losing control
It was me that would end up
Dead. Because
He was
In front of me
The whole time
It was too late
I found myself
Locked in chains
My fate was
Forward: from the victims perspective.
Backward: from the murderers perspective.

 Mar 2018 Avery Nightshade
There once was a girl
Who wept in secret
And screamed in silence
The depths of her suffering
Unknown but to one
A special girl
A wonderful friend
Who is the reason she never gave up
Who wiped away the oceans of tears
And called to her in loudest of silences
A friend to whom the girl will be eternally grateful
For my dearest friend, who has stuck with me through tough times. There aren't enough words to describe how thankful I am for her
Where do all the lost boys go?
The rag tag scruffy band
of tiny merry men
playing Robin hood again,

The kings of
flying fancy,
dragons dancing
in the fire lit night,
the little wrathful
waking warriors,

The lonely eyes,
with scraped
and soon to be
scabbed up knees,

The oily skin
and dripping tears
accompanied by
snot that drip drops,

The searchers,
tiny adventurers,
monster hunters,

The little victims,
who follow the whims
of cruel dictators,
of vile violators,
of demon desecrators
on their soft flesh?

When all the madness
seems to pass
and only the stillness
finally lasts,
when they finally
silence the bad,
the nightmares
they had,

after peering
the artic cold
of winter’s
harsh white snow,
searching for
a safety
they have never

please tell me
cause I don’t know,
where do
the lost boys
go to?
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