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Michael Solc Oct 2015
Can you
feel
the emptiness
of the
space 
around
you
creep in
through 
your 
ears?

Like a 
bubble in
your skull
ready to 
be popped 
by the right
word.
Michael Solc Aug 2015
I ate from 
a rotting bowl
the 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
*** 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 
fire. 

On my way,
she called
once from the
darkened doorway,
a plea to a girl
she once knew,
answered
by a 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.
Michael Solc Aug 2014
A man shakes
uncontrollably,
bloodied knees
scrape the
sidewalk. 
My tired
feet drag in
sweaty boots
riddled with holes. 
He doesn't hear 
them
shuffle past. 

I want to
ask
if he's alright,
but last week's
stabbing
down the street
holds my tongue. 

Around a 
crumbling brick
corner,
another man 
is ******* 
in the stairwell. 
I let him finish. 

My legs
are weak;
I'm tired, 
hungry. 
Every joint
a rusted hinge. 

Both shirts,
required,
soaked with sweat. 
Ratty pant legs
don't fall quite
far enough
over the tops 
of my boots. 
Not my clothes. 
I only care
because I'm
always in them. 

Morning comes. 
The big shots
show up 
just as I hide
my last bite 
of sandwich. 
8am. 
Almost bedtime. 

Perfectly cut
hair over
designer glasses. 
A suit that 
would feed me
for the year. 
Plops a
briefcase down,
my month's 
rent. 

"Is that your BMW 
in my space?"

He waits.
Not my usual type of thing. Working nights for over a year as a guard in my hometown just has me constantly asking, "What happened to my city?"

Also: true story.
Michael Solc Jul 2014
I can feel
her absence,
like swallowing
a cold
knife. 

The blade 
slices slowly,
deeper
with each
heartbeat.  
Tasting 
sorrow
like copper. 

A cold
steel shard
that rests
against
my heart. 

But will it cut?
Can you still bleed?
Do you love?
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