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 Jun 2018 Ember
Skaidrum
images
 Jun 2018 Ember
Skaidrum
(harvested from my heart)

12:24 a.m. --old friend
Well, if it isn't the moon herself
"Hello Icarus,"
You came home
"Black holes aren't homes."
Yet you were raised here, my dear
"How could I forget?"

1:05 a.m. --past lover
And how is she now?
"Who?"
That wolf girl you adored
"Smoking on other stars."
Stars?
"Planets as well,"
Does she fancy other moons?
"She fancies all celestial things."
Surely that is not the case-
"Her songs ate silence long ago."
What?
"Her wolfsong for me is but
loose ashes and
an epitaph now."

2:42 a.m. --current lover
Was the revolution delicious?
"Like a glass of unborn names,"
That many?
"The light spared no one."
No one at all?
"All perished under his gaze."
But you fell in love with him, didn't you?
"Yes."
Why?
"Simple;
I am a chaser of the light."

3:17 a.m. --state of mind
Why are you here?
"I spent all my faith up."
And you think you'll find more here?
"No."
Then why-
"The gates summoned me."
That is suicide, my dear
"I imagine it more like--
salvation in disguise."

4:08 a.m. ---medicine
Too many ghosts are glued to your spine
"I can't shake them."
You can shed them into poems
"They'll just turn into puppets."
But you will be their puppet master
"You expect me to play god?"
I expect you to rule over this wreckage,
like you used to


5:32 a.m. --homeward bound
Have you missed me over the years?
"Only in blinks."
Why's that I wonder?
"The moon sleepwalks across the sky."
So, are you going back now?
"Depends,"
On?
"If the night has eaten my name,
and craves these ruins again."
ft. the story behind
why the moon leaves our sky sometimes

© Copywrite Skaidrum
You hate my poems
You say they take me from you
that they're pointless
a waste of time
maybe you're right.
You read them,
just the words as they fall,
and say you get nothing
just syllables.
I have lost count
of the sighs and eyerolls,
the you have no talents,
they sit in a memory box
along with the times you've asked me to stop.
Stop.
Just like that.
Stop pouring myself onto paper,
Stop looking for beauty in darkness,
Stop healing.
You prefer me broken, fragile, dependant,
the girl you took from nowhere to god knows where
a once pretty, broken thing
to hang silently from your arm
while you talk proudly of the soul that you saved.
You fear that my writing will end us.
I fear that my stopping will end me.
I hope he never makes me choose.

— The End —