I heard painful derision of the nightfall
drawn me to seclude my talent
into the unknown place where it was not born futile.
It has been years since you ate my mind;
since we met in that strange road
where all melancholies diverged,
you have been my relief, my friend
and my witness when I was crippled by tears.

I seldom asked the mirrors, why should I continue?
If there are thousands of people outside our worlds
who could create you better than I,
who could make you more attractive than my pen?
Why should I continue my dreams?
And so I almost gave up, surrendered in peace;
I always wake up on the wrong side of the bed.

I was sailing edges of the oceans
just to seek for a masterpiece,
but I was fooled by my selfish intentions
and so I laughed at myself for length,
for there were a bunch of times
I could not even bestow you a single word.

I was totally bruised; buried my feet on the ground.
Others love my poetry, others just trifle,
others read it aloud that no one can hear,
others in facade of silence.
It matters no more, I have critics then.

I write not to impress, but simply to express
my undefined emotions, and unstitched fantasies.
Well, composing you is little bit hard for my part,
but you were a butterfly in my heart.

Paint stained canvases,
And ****** bathroom floors,
You were an artist of sorts,
Never really knew who you were,

With one simple cut,
Your mind was at ease,
Blood dripped down,
And suddenly,
You found yourself,

But problems occur,
You had no clue who you really were,
This had become you,

But I always knew,
You were an artist of sorts,
You never really knew who you were,

This is the man,
You once were,
He's gone now,
Died of suicide,

Paint stained canvases
And ****** bathroom floors,
All to remind me,

Of the man you once were..

Tedium brought them here.
Bored with routine head-counts,
museums and man-made landmarks.

Impulse told them
To flatten the silent fronds,
Blindly tear down the hampering vines,
Rattle the industrious cities beneath their feet.

Curiosity led them
To this patch of unkempt squitch,
This sacred space littered with clean bones.

No words came with them.
Only Observation...


... a leaping fire tended by savages
Polished teeth strung around their necks,
The bark-ridged skin,
The supernaturally piercing eyes,
Their ashen members grazing the farinaceous earth.

At the heart of this sacred place
Littered with the clean bones,
Condesention covered them with coats,
Misinterpreted grins exposing evidential remains.

Fear penetrated their too-white skins,
Their souls through the sockets of their eyes,
Their clattering teeth.

All this is true :
The scattered bones,
The brass buttons blinking through starved ashes,

The arrows in a glass case.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2012

There’s a crimson splotch painted on the side of the road,
Resting amongst the ruins of broken glass,
Such a pop against the black and grey.
This was not meant to be a final resting place.
Someone once cared for this rose,
They plucked the thorns so it couldn’t hurt.
It has been preserved to a perfect crisp.
Its vibrancy turned almost black.
Heat has tapped the liquid.
There is no colour and no life.
It has hung its head down in eternal defeat,
Stubbornly refusing to turn to dust,
It doesn’t even rustle with the breeze,
Or spark against the drops of rain.
It’s just beautiful road ****.