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What happens when we all live to one-hundred?
I am expecting more wrinkles than I have now,
A year before, at ninety-nine.
I've lived for so long,
Death shall I make it past that hundred mile mark?
I feel so tired in these days of Fall,
I'm wilted, I think, like untended petunias,
Like leaves scalding in the midday sun.
My wife is long gone,
My wife I loved and made love to,
Well past the age of fifty,
She died at sixty-one,
I sit remembering,
My time alone.
This horde of trees reflect exactly how I feel,
This decaying oak,
The willow tree caving in,
The bent, broken sycamore tree,
It's branches growing towards earth,
Weighed down, like me with heavy sins.
Butterflies flew now, the kind rare to winter,
Like old people having their slow, careful version of ***,
You might not want to watch it,
You who are young,
You who are convinced,
That when it comes to old age, an exception will be made.
But they still want to do it,
Weird love is better than no love at all.
                                                                     -**Firefly
Zeno Carter September 18 2014
I had you, but I lost you.
I didn't know you, so I lost you.
I got scared, and I lost you.
You're okay, I still lost you..
And all that time.. I was scared to lose you..
I've lost my muse.
   My poetry song.
        My words don't flow.
             My thoughts don't glide.
What's in a muse?
I ask myself.
As I claw and scream and ask for help.
Release it comes.
In poetry.
But how can I write without a muse.
Sing me a song.

     Of how you love me.

Even if it's a lie.

      I don't care at all.
liquor,

penetrates the air
creeps under the door
settles on the breath

of a witch.

hissing, glaring, staring, kissing
on someone, anyone who walks by.
She spits fury and frustration
in all directions.

slurred words, glazed eyes,
heart of a monster…

I enter the Cave,
ignorant and vulnerable.

Through the dark,
her burning, malignant
eyes seek out a goat.
A blood vessel.
her past victims
scattered in pieces across the
beaten ground.

Pulp. Mangles. Tortured. Suffering
from the poison of her bite,
the remorseless dismissal of them just
inches from death.

She wants them to cling on…

I’ve heard stories.
Seen skeletons.
They warned me to stay away,

They call her badger,
snake, bloodsucker…
They’re convinced no one can survive her bite.

Well,
I don’t need liquor to mask my scent
or get blood in my eyes.
I’m from out of town,
and this ***** is about to meet the Wolverine.
With folded wings,
I rush to meet the horizon,
The kiss of a ****** sunset,
In the arms of a cold grey sea,
Deep in her winter embrace,
I feel her stone cold heart.
It beats still.
There is the warmth of fiery blood,
Deep inside the icy cave,
Beating, beating still.
Let me whisper in your ear,
The words of the wolf,
That cries alone on a hill far away,
Waiting for his lover to rise,
Waiting for her to sing to him,
The lady of the moon,
Separated by dawn,
United at dusk,
Feel the pain in his heart,
Hear it echo in the silence
Of the sea at night,
When dreams are dreamt with open eyes,
She will call upon the waves,
That gently caress the sands of time.
On intoxicated hills,
Silently he waits,
While she sings to the seas,
While she sings the clouds to sleep,
For her grey eyes to turn to his,
But the clouds grow jealous of their love,
Thunder and lightning light up the night,
The storm embraces the sea in it's *****,
And her song can reach him no more,
There's only the roaring waves and the screaming thunder,
And struck by a million volts,
He smiles through the clouds at her,
But her eyes are turned away into the abyss,
And with one last breath,
He cries out to her,
As the lights go dim,
And the noise grows silent,
Silent and still,
She hides under the veil of the cold grey sea,
And in this cage of regrets,
I feel her stone cold heart,
Beating, beating still.
I'm stuck inbetween wanting recognition and not caring who sees.
Because part of me just wants fame and the other wants release.
The two halves of my soul fight quite violently.
And it's ripping me apart.
I don't know which to feed
 Sep 2014 Olivia Montgomery
Erenn
Despite its wonders enclosed by fatuous walls
'Boxes' are the entities of our translucent merriment
Creating that canopy out of our prodigious stronghold
We feel unscathed by the demon’s vice
We’re just the same
*As we are  inside
This is from one of my works, 'Mavericks'.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/792751/mavericks/
Remember when you're a kid. Your dad bought a refrigerator or a washing machine. You don't care about those. You just wanna play with those big boxes. Begging your parents not to throw them away. And you make this fort that can protect you from anything, But then you grew up.
After all the pain you 'survived',
you realized you're the BOX.
And you realized that you're the demon too.
Because the truth kills you. And you had enough.
So you can choose to **** the demon or
let it reside in you.

— The End —