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Finally some cardboard, where I feel at home
I can write the words I’m proud to own
The other pages, they were OK I guess
A few good rhymes arranged in a mess
I like the cardboard, it treats me so well
It’s the last of the stories I tried to tell
My new pad is clean, it’s going to be great
As for the cardboard, I’ll just have to wait
For those who have read my other poems;  39 More Pages to Go and 38 poems, I finally made to the cardboard. This is what it said to me.
She moves in and out of the shadows,
A wraith wishing through the stygian sylvan meadows,
Slipping, walking into ancient tapestries,
As she stalks, teary-eyed.

Chilling through loud shrieks as moonlight retreats
And it was the light that betrayed her translucent silhouette
From her form unfurled black tenebrous tendrils that reach to the distance
Polluting roots with the same decay that became of her visage
Miasmic plumes of thick white fog loom, choking oxygen,

Vengeful acidic tears,
Etch lines she’d cross within the fabric of her soul,
Her spirit, if it willed, could condemn the living
In each dagger-laced umbral stare.
It was the light that betrayed her,
As benevolent as she was, there came no absolution.

Weaving in and out of the shadows,
Phantasmagorically she betrays them,
Luring them into her den of retribution,
As the tendrils grasp like leeches,
Bringing her new legions,
She is the queen of liches,
Forsaken banshee, in her nocturnal fortress of the forest
Like an angry Irish fae, or the Morrigan herself.
Corvid whispers in soft ****** caws,
Led to her spectral draw,
Had we prayer, may we pray to a god to save us all.
Wanted to get back to writing about spirits, demons, and ghouls. i love storytelling or at least attempting to tell.
No ones
Ever seen me before
So what could they be after?
He who would valiantly be
Gainst all disaster
Like Gregory Peck
In that church
When he raised his dagger
I know I'll get shot
But who will
Communicate
What goes after?
rain is here once more sun as gone away
weathers overcast  just a dismal day
gardens will be happy water  there at last
rain  is here once more now the sun has past

plants they need the water so that they can grow
so they can restore.  from the heat wave glow.
it will make it cooler flowers they wont die
they can have there water as the rain falls from the sky
Her fingers brush her hair in front of your disclosure,
Immeasurably not to cause you any misery,
Lowering inhibitions to bring you flavor,
Not restrained attempts to bring you skin liquor,
A snail's head bobs up as its with less terror
and a tail-gate of passion ends flirtatiously.

A water's tap pours out or less with pressure
And no doubt a measure is the treasure.
A joker is the one who clings to leather,
A jacket of the one captivates to fever.
The hunger wild to salt & the sugar
The player's set himself up to as the hustler

If truth or dare never answered in postcards
her sincere flair wouldn't be wrapped in scarves,
If commodiously of two parties sharing,
into the night, steaks wouldn't be raring
to be a taste of other blissful strangers.

tail-gates...
 2d Traveler
Nosy
I toss, I turn.
My blankets—too warm,
then too cold,
like storms across my skin.
My thoughts go.

Never silence—
just a pain burning behind my eyes,
a mind wired
to a clock not built
for this reality.

I get up and circle my room,
Sit down, play a tune,
Write my ghosts onto paper,
Reshape my pillow.

A breeze,
a hum,
a passing car—
all rise like ghosts,
but none loud enough
to drown the ones in my head.

“Please be quiet,”
I whisper to my mind.
But instead,
it grins and says:

“Remember what you did 10 years ago?”
“Wasn’t that moment strange? Embarrassing? Wrong?”

I give no reaction.
I’ve learned:
engagement feeds them.
So I lie there,
Handing off insane,
hoping the ceiling swallows me whole
And take away my pain.

I cannot shut off—
not until I’m lowered, into a silence
Surrounded by the mournful,
deep enough to dull the thoughts,
until I’m sealed away
and my mind finally softens.
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