far from this place
there is a september

that waits for us
with a golden sunrise

where siblings sing
in circles

holding hands like
they used to

back in '99

when this world was
a better place

grass was soft
and green

sky was big
and blue

whence dreams
never left

how quickly the
sun sets to the west

now that it's the
end of the world


@writeweird

10/8/2022  -  11:16 pm





some took my arms
some took my legs

took my bones
took my head  

they tore my clothes
they ate my flesh

took my eyes
cut open my chest

even my name
even my breath

they took my veins
even the threads

nothing remains of me
not even my death

nothing






@writeweird

8/8/2022

frost seeks a home in
the abyss of my bones

preserved in her colour
the red of my heart

her sadness is my purple
sky pouring misery

my flesh is now silver
without her touch

bustling streets are barren
without her presence

and hers is still a memory
fading away

dying as i die




@writeweird

there's poetry here
somewhere in my sad
night

simple words and
byzantine thoughts

rampaging through
the space

crashing into other
atoms

dressed in a foreign
language

an ocean of everything
swirling in nothingness

maybe a dream of
someone else

captured in ink
today

misery finds me
   the common bird

perched upon
   branches of autumn

waiting over me
   such an old friend

hidden herein
   casket of heavy air

how i wish to embrace
her edges

with what little is left
of me

that wants to stay
awake


@writeweird

tethered to her ivory wings

nestled in arms of a corpse

and to her lover she does sing:

a song of the white horse.

from her tower of purple pearls

she weaves her a sky of plume;

wherein distance morrow whirls

weary of the yester silver moon.

she lays upon an emarald gale

another spell to cast in bloom

for her love is now old and frail

becoming of dread, death and gloom.

19/6/2022





Dreams, eyes wide open, she said
to me "there's only an abyss underneath the bed," and grey clouds, against the blue skies, "that is just a thought in your head," she said to me.

"what is noon to solitude?," she whispered to herself, "what is a forest to the moon?," and the curtains set themselves on fire; "it must be the heavens knocking on our door," i said in a hurry.

the angels plead for discomfort, how quickly the pedestal invites scrutiny, how slowly the day fades from benign existence - is that how autumn expends herself every spring? waiting to find a lovers arm to stop breathing?





@writeweird