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Michael Solc Jul 2019
I reach for the
pain
like a stuttering
stumbling drunk.
Blubbering when
I spill it
all over myself.

The shame,
embarrassments
mean nothing,
so long as
I can still tell you
how much this
HURTS.
Michael Solc Jul 2019
Isolation
is desolation.
The assault
of Nothing
upon all that should be
by all that is.
Michael Solc Jul 2019
Dance upon
the broken shores
of Great Carcosa,
where Silence
plagues the
calloused ghosts
who wither,
whispering
along the wharf.

They dance
for Him,
our Yellow King,
whose misery
creeps
over brittle fields
and rotting crops
stinking in an
amber sun.
Boardwalks crumble
‘round rusted nails
hammered down
by the last to be
forgotten.

Here the
dying wolf
has sharper
teeth,
even as the
stinging wind
rips the fur
from its flesh.

Dance upon
their crackling
bones
in salted air
to the roar of
the mad
and the crashing
of the lost.

His Eye will
see
and You shall
hear
His song
upon Your
lips.
Michael Solc Aug 2015
I ate from 
a rotting bowl
writhing fruits
picked blindly 
by the crone
who set her children 
free into
the forest. 
They whisper
in the 
tangled brush,
snatching at 
the ankles 
of those who 
wander
from the path. 

Under grey 
skies
weeping their
first snow,
the crackling
branches twist in their 
death throes,
as wretched beasts
burrow through
their brittle bodies
to hide 
from the cold. 
And from the
children,
who play
at being 
wolves. 

The crone
speaks before the
hearth,
of little but the 
cold,
stirring her
filth over
heartless
flame. 
She says their
names, 
never quite 
smiling,
but weeps
softly
when she cannot 
remember
her own. 
I do not
tell her mine,
for fear 
she will one day
whisper it 
upon the 
embers. 

On my leave,
she called
once from the
darkened doorway,
a plea to a girl
she once knew,
answered by
mad laughter
from the
cold and dark,
where no 
footsteps
fall.
Michael Solc Sep 2014
An autumn 
sunbeam on
the edge of my
childhood bed,
curled up with my
softly purring cat
nestled by my side. 
Two unlike creatures,
brought together in warmth.
Michael Solc Aug 2014
Somewhere
in the last
heart
that has
never
been broken,
lies the key
to all
that we have
lost.
Michael Solc Aug 2014
Flames dance
over the bones
of an unfinished
sonnet,
now half-remembered
and strewn about
the ashes
of a love
huddled 
in the cold.
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