Him; his spirit
and smile
is beautiful
and sencire.
Flip the switch,
and for

[a moment],

or for a day,
all the arch of him
disappears.

© S.T. Rebel of Eden

Lost my way in these salad days,
started to drown in your salad ways,
this distance keeps me from feeling whole,
causing disparity of the soul,

Cordially invited to share my fate,
you didn't show up,  you were fashionably late,
Id packed my burdens in a trunk of desire,
but you stamped on the embers, put out the fire.

And if credence could talk and was given a face,
it would be my companion in this fall from grace,
but for now I’ll just accept my plight,
take a walk in the shadows, avoiding the light.

Come dance with the devil,
hear his violin call,
the soulful beauty of its music,
calling one and all,

Coiling round your soul,
with his slender, twisting arms,
teasing and beguiling,
singing his woeful psalms,

He’s taking his curtain call,
as you gently start to weep,
waiting for the darkness,
your soul is his to keep.

If I could find the Proverbs
arranging them accordingly
Inside these lucid creases
I would die happy, just to
concieve metrical composition

... for all time

I'd scribble heartbreaks and
rescue missions of my soul
to clarify empathy of baptism
that my love is more than love

If I had a key with a heart
bleeding at the crown
I would unlock the poison
So much I allowed myself
in suffering
I am languishing
rib cages, shutting in
all my reasoning to breathe...

where to be found another day

I'd scribe in scrolls
of my 15 yrs of sorrows
hoping your eyes can see
I am just as damaged as
a vehicle wreck
Yet a mother of 1
who was lost
on a sad occasion

3 yrs ago when I first
decided to bare my deepest
and thickest out pour
of my poetry,
I wrote about you

Mathias Ti'avasu'e

..I became the whipping
motherless girl beneath Zues..

Conveyed the impression
at first glance
Writing my storms delicately
as when mommy first held you
helped me describe my
inner workings
so that you might understand

… exactly the mother I
could have been

I love you in all of your grace, your
purity, and your precious life.
And when that time comes that
I may write of you
I could find the words I need
to create heavenly for you
and to conquer

... and if this makes perfect poetry,
then why does it still hurt so bad?

© S.T. Rebel of Eden