Like a hammer that’s too short.
Like a wall that feels lacking.
Like a land of giants, vanished.
Like a god among gods who aren’t your own.
Perfect in an imperfect world or

imperfect in a perfect world;
your imperfection shown.

Yggdrasil overgrown and all the options leave you empty.
At first nine worlds seem plenty
but soon you hope for twenty,
finding no treasures tempting.
Your desires in the waters 

of three holy wells reflecting
a thing that seems calm and collected:
an ending to the ending;
soft but not,

like a pillow made of rock,
you rest your head upon
the thought of Ragnarök.
Elliot Munro Aug 22
A Story of guilt.
Not for him, for us.

Strokes and flicks,
Glides of guilded golds
Hushed in the Blues,
Innocence in the Greens;
Boldly infused oils
Spilling out on a canvas;
A legacy built on
Sorrow. Toil. Turmoil.
Who with dark indents on a page shaded in
Shadows showed
Work. Work, work,
Constant work.
A Starry Night’s muse.
All the while cowards saying they always
Always loved,
Always loving
Elliot Munro Aug 19
I inhale the dark mist of self sodomising reflections like it were the sweet smell of nostalgia; Lavender on my pillow playing soft symphonies of content. This is no longer a reality but can be re-lived through memories, through a silver-lined portal of pretend; the face staring back at me, I know, is a devise; all fogged by want. This is the face I choose, the one I wear today. It may change, but for now, like a magic trick, smoke and mirrors guard me and my secrets.
Elliot Munro Aug 11
Ignorance is bliss;
Sweeter than any kiss.
It’s an unfair kind of careless care.
This idea of something you missed,
A tear which never needed to be known,
There. In the mirror. Wipe away the smudges and it becomes visible,
Clearer. Shown in a smile that some would call naive. But you don’t because Ignorance is richer.
Your ears burn bright but you believe all is well, that all is right, so you continue your life like a phone in a theatre. Beating on the drum of negligence, perfectly pitching yourself as a heedless, harmonious heap; inauspiciously and ironically thinking ones self, misguidedly, meticulous. Inadvertently beautiful.
Ignorance is bliss.
Elliot Munro Jul 30
There’s something about be you don’t know.
You can’t quite put your finger on it.
There’s a part of me that’s drifted away
Like a cool breeze on a summers day.
Two points with distance growing between,
Shifting through time and
Both needed space from this place
So I disconnected the fuse and the spark went with it. Fizzled.
I hid it where you can’t see it, out of sight of your hand held screen. Visiting you with a tap but we both know there’s more than that, more than this coding and updated status, facts we can’t see behind these boxes of light. Facts like you and me and what I wanted us to be but now it seems I was as real as a dream.
This nightmare.
This nightmarish grief without you leans on me like a leach, feeding on this thing, this thing between you and me.
‘What ‘thing’?’
‘What do I mean?’
What am I saying?
Feeling like there’s something about me you don’t know?
Hm. I guess you just can’t put your finger on it.
Elliot Munro Jul 27
A chime calls like bells lost in wishing wells,
scattered deep in valleys or lost in snowy mountains it dwells.
Sounds that paint the thick colour of nostalgia for a time you lost and never had;
having lost yourself in a fog of static,
glad that thoughts would freeze for a moment like ripples on a dark lake;
the moon reflecting years of torture, tormented, teased by ghosts of those gone
a long long long time ago. Tragic
of corse
but I dare say
you were just as much to blame
as a wishing well chime
or ripples on a lake.
Elliot Munro Jul 26
On the Wednesday night of my birthday
I noticed how I’d been thinking of you lately
On the Wednesday night of my birthday
I missed that lost promise of a maybe

Not a ‘promise’, you wouldn’t have said so,
Not an ‘oath’ that I’m pretending you swore,
It was a hope that I’d been waiting for.
The maybe that maybe we were more

But more than what? you’d say
More that friends? ‘That’s all it was, the only way’
Left with a sour denial to taste
After all the time together we’d waste.
Wasted if we were nothing that great
But we were and you were my soul..
Too late to differentiate

Lost with time
From my mind
On the Wednesday night of my birthday
Things have started going a little hazy
On the Wednesday night of my birthday
My memory of you is slowly fading

I’m going crazy. It’s something I’d worked so hard at saving.

On my birthday?
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