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Natasha Monica Nov 2020
We meet again in
the last hour of dawn
deathbed creaking;
ravens croaking;
I said:
not yet, not yet!
my candle flickers -
not yet, not yet!
free your words-
You said:
it’s the eleventh hour;
your pen will bleed-
tear and anger;
your melody will be-
forgotten in the rain;
your scent will linger-
six feet under;
your wisdom will be-
trapped in the quicksand-
of your dear Sisyphus;
your beauty will be-
fed to scavenging worms;

you could have been
a phenomenal maiden.

it’s the eleventh hour
deathbed creaking;
ravens croaking;
too late, too late.
Don't let your dreams die with you.
Natasha Monica Oct 2020
O fair Helena descending-
How could you not look at me?
You were once Narcissus in the meadow;
Kissing the soil-
Blooming with lavenders-
Basking in the afternoon sun-
Where did all your sunshine go?

Your blurry reflection-
       of somberness;
                  heavy eyes;
                          calloused hands;
                                 disheveled hair;
                                   timid air-
                               Dismayed the goddess in you.

                                          Faded golden lyre;
                                     Withered Pierian roses;
                                      Crushed altar of flame;  
                                            Mortal madness!
                                    Ascend back to the divines-
                                    Depart from this mortal coil;
                                 Be the Narcissus in the meadow.
Inspired by Jon More
Natasha Monica Oct 2020
Lay your hands on my cold and fragile bottle;
hold the cork and twist me-
don’t stop until you hear me pop;
set my spirit free and I go astray-
into your soul so weary;
close your eyes, smell the earth in me-
herbs, tobaccos, vanillas, trees-
savor the aroma of heavens;
now pour me down in the empty glass-
of love and affection;
touch me with your lonely tongue;
indulge my warmth-
wrapping your delicate heart;
little sips-
little sips;
you lose control.
Natasha Monica Oct 2020
on wet wood

Black ants and poisonous snakes-
Creeped out and slithered around-
The rotten wood full of ugly desire-
As I ignite the fire.

on Shakespeare

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
Summer of terror and discontent;
The funeral of Shakespeare’s sonnet-
As I weep in tragic.

on pouring rain

Sunday is in silent agony;
Lights out, curtains down;
Angry sky cries in vain-
As I mute the rain.

on bittersweet coffee

One, two and more of grandé
Iced-cold caffeine in my blue vein;
Hands are still, the world’s unstirred-
As I sip the last drop of despair.
This is the third part of my poem. Read "The Prologue" first, followed by "The Encounter".
Natasha Monica Oct 2020
You smell like a wet wood-
Freshly watered with rain;
Dried up by the crisp of the wind;
And golden shade of sunlight peeking through the leaves.

You reminded me the sonnets of Shakespeare-
Classic, romantic, and deep.
I swam into your thoughts but was drowned-
A renaissance man; I cannot fathom.

You sounded like a heavy rain-
Pouring carelessly on the hot tin roof;
I could listen to it, ceaselessly-
Under the white blank sheets on a lazy Sunday.

You tasted like the last drop of coffee;
Dripping through my throat, s-l-o-w-l-y.
Wanting for more-thirsty for the unknown.
A strong bittersweet addiction.
This is the continuation of my first poem called "The Prologue".
Natasha Monica Oct 2020
Zeus bothered the sleeping summer

And left the moon bewildered-

Dancing around earth clockwise,

Stars fell in complete mayhem.

And there came Poseidon in rage!

Waves reached the mighty sky

And never returned to its abode,

Abruptly, it stopped kissing the lonely shore.

Hades crawled out from the underworld

With the three-headed Cerberus

Wiggling its tail, mouth wide-open-

Summer was doomed.

Screaming to the deserted forest,

Echoed voice answered the call

Autumn turned silver from gold

Spring battled with Fall.

Turmoil awakened the sun

Stretching out its rays to the skyline

Coating the universe with warmth

Hope sprouted as the birds sang.

The gods went back to Olympus-

Left the earth in yellow embrace

Filled the clouds with pink and orange hues

Behind this milieu, I found you.

— The End —