———"that familiar boiling yolk of a sunrise—comas richer than russian dark chocolate— & saturn smoking a cigar while playing chess with gravity... i have been here before."
ocean dove, pardon my excuses for not writing as of late; been busy fulfilling a prophecy that can't even look me in the eye and ask me to change. in the june wreckage of two thousand and sixteen; i retired my tongue with the dormant volcanoes before the world could end in my mouth. and yet my poetry informs me that there are some wounds too sophisticated to even flower into scars—kind of like how my words will never feel like honey again, (but vinegar nonetheless.)
how cruel of me it was; to condemn you to a death without one final cigarette slow dancing with your lungs. i miss the shadows of you most: the belt of venus caged like a wild animal in your eyes, your rusty guitar silky voice dripping off the haunted house we called home, countless a.m. drives kicking up filthy moonlight in the rearview mirror, but most of all—the way you said 'i love you' like it was nothing dressed up in something fashionable.
it is now the june of two thousand and nineteen. this wreckage sat on a throne and filled into the moon's shoes. a crown crawled it's way home to my head and kissed me with knowledge drenched in your name. this queen started from lesson no. 1: broken instruments, will preach broken sounds— and how lovely it has been, planting a world war in my soul only to raise eden in it's stead. i will miss your company, but your ghost is no longer a requirement for me to be complete.
i have learned to stop loving falsehoods. i have learned to start loving the leftovers of who i am becoming. we would have been star crossed lovers had you not tried to swallow that bottle of pills that famous night where we fought like madonnas— but it looks like you got to death's fortune cookie before i did.
"and one day, you will have lived long enough to taste your grief turn bittersweet too"———
my alibi still tosses in it's sleep at night thinking of you.
© Copywrite Skaidrum
The young seeds unsown
long forgotten granite reasons
a waste of stone
and otherwise arable soil
which now lies fallow and barren
like the ancient womb
from which they were given way
unsafely into the world
of parks and laughter
of tears and monumental alibis
for another's selfish desire
to raise a flag upon a distant hill
and bury beneath it
like supporting struts
the very bones of our future.
after Academy Hill, Stratford
Steady thrums and drums caused rifting thoughts,
Reevaluating why confusion is so important.
Curiosity killed the cat, the mischievous one.
The murderer made way with a simple alibi
A photograph in a collection of poems.
A whisper in a crowd of screams and shadows.
Things unseen, but felt, serve to remind
Why constant isolation won't was away the messages
Sent by a silence and a distant stare.
Open books stained with salt and spirits
Haunt a space that should not have formed.
Lava spills out like a child's science project.
Maybe it was an experiment. A torn open pocket in
The rationality contained in the ghosts of minds.
Quiet and demented secrets whisper cunning propositions.
And maybe it was just a silly dream in the mind of a *****.
Telling the true and false is never accurate, after all
Who are we to say what is right and wrong?
Write and erase? Just like everything that has
Ever been said. Eyes are wide awake, but the
Spirit behind them is a sleeping giant. Stupid and oblivious.
Don't move, don't speak, don't try to make sense
Of anything that anyone says, that's my advice.
"Everything will be fine in the end."
I have no clue.
— The End —