Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Under a sullen, unloving sky,
Caught off guard by the searching rain,
She flees to shieldlike canopies.
A pilgrim on the path of shadow
Ever tethered to the flame.
Enslaved to the way of fire
Sycophant of the eternal blaze.
Condemned to spend the end of days
Wandering wastelands of the Sun,
Forever exiled from the shade.

In the darkness she would remain,
If only she would have her way.
Cocooned in shells of memory
Fogs of war,
Ill explained.
Though the forest chatter
Never quite sounds the same,
The pitter patter
Pauses,
Secrets encoded in the rain.
Her frail wings lay broken
Breath comes barely when spoken,
Offspring away upon the wind.
Though they took no time to notice
The darkness roars forth and shows us

We have our own fires to attend.
~
Hand and needle,
weapons of mass protection.
Mending day called solace,
bitterness in every stitch.
When all guides disappear
the hand begins to tremble,
that is the material point.
Listen to the water,
the sea is full of memories.
It knows everything,
it feels nothing.

A rage is building.
The sails unfurl,
the wind follows.
A hundred years of
traversing the deep
on a ship full of opiates
and other distant mermaids.
This blood vessel,
cresting the heart of the wave,
you will never completely cross
this body of water
until you learn to trust
the hands that hold back
death and it's squall.

Even now they drop anchor, singing
into the starry sky:

"Gather ye fishermen's wives
As thy men roll out to sea
Pray one and all
Thy sails hold strong this day..."

~
Dance with me
my darling
upon the balcony
in the moonlight
cheek-to-cheek

We can whisper about
the shrouded past with smiles
and promise each other
all sorts of pleasures
one last time

Just close your eyes
my love
ignore the sound
of the wrecking ball
and i will hold you tight

even if for only a moment longer...
Swaying curtain in the window,
airguns after dinner,
broken doll on the highway,

a promise is a promise.

The small winters
in the corner of her eyes,
Mom and Dad, they hold serve
in the garden, at the office,
no one is watching as she reels,

hurt whispers on.

Walking past stones and trees,
the bones of things,
coming at it all wrong,
this time she makes a promise,

under a name that hides her.
A teenage female student opened fire with a handgun Monday at a private Christian school in Wisconsin, killing a teacher and another teenager during the final week before Christmas break. The shooter also died, police said
I am
Scared
Of
Time
It marches on
Cold and clinging
Kind of evening
At the steps of
The Dakota archway
Are you banging your head
against a wall, Holden Caulfield?
Beautiful boy
(Darling boy)
But the limousine was waiting
Annie Leibovitz had the final image
"And I'm standing on the edge
of some crazy cliff.
That's all I do all day.
I'd just be
the catcher in the rye and all."
On the evening of 8 December 1980, John Lennon was fatally shot by Mark David Chapman in the archway of the Dakota, his residence in New York City.
Next page