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In bitter ink
I dip my feather.
My hands carve out
A weathered letter.
I hold the page
Steady, it hovers
Grazing the flame.
Your name getting hotter,
Til it crumbles to ashes -
Catching fire at my altar.

▪︎ mica light ▪︎
I S A A C May 2022
king of rats
mediumship, situationships
dreams showing me your daily slips
your kiss with her, your lips on his
your hands on him, your striptease
pretty please you begged me
pretty please you strung me along
all along, declined your calls
thank god, he had some sense
thank god, I never sent that text
thank god, I let it drift off into the ocean
nature will take its course, I will heal my corpse
writing stories until my dreams show me
the next thing, my next path
I will align, I build an altar, a waft
crossing the waters, no knife in my back
Ayesha May 2021
So, again,
this bleak little altar
breaks down sobbing blood
"Have I not given enough?"
it cries, and within,
a rose-kissed goddess with her ash-white skin
rakes a single nail down
the wounded, old walls
"No," swirls a viscous sunlight,
sweet and smooth,
"I demand more."
and the whole being
I think I found my perfect bio
"Too emo to function"
What a brilliant line, well done girly—
Sa Weol May Apr 2021
I pray for a lucid dream tonight,
In a sky colored carpet floor,
Seasoned with bluish tulips
on the ground,
In a pure white long dress,
decorated with pearls,
with happy people beside,
Seeing tall pine trees,
With a calming cloudy weather,
Bits of sunshine
that balances the mood of the setting,
Singing behind the white cottony curtain,
Someone's listening
and waiting for me,
Curtain opens,
Ended the song,
Take down the microphone,
I see someone from a bit distance,
A sudden music played,
That made everyones happy tears fell
and touched,
I walk towards where the man is,
Blurred, but as I go forth to him,
Little by little,
He is getting clearer
From afar, I know
That it is you,
At the end
Of the altar.

alyssum withers Dec 2020
i think the worst thing you can be
is afraid
worshipping at the altar of fear
is how man is ruined day after day
locking hearts in cages
is the act of a coward
and yet...
and yet.
everyday i am afraid
of society
of the facts about myself i bury and suppress
i kneel before the thundering clouds of fear
and submit to them
but one day soon
i think i may
stumble on
even as anxious lightning
strikes me at my core

i'm trying not to be afraid
and maybe you could call that bravery
Dylan McFadden May 2020
Behold the dreadful Horns of Red
The Beasts who trample o’er the dead
Who roar and gore and raise their heads
In challenge to the One who bled –

The One who willfully was pierced
Whose will is strong, whose love is fierce
Who crushes Altars men revere
That they may see through their veneer

Keith Strand Feb 2020
Colloquially bent
With a positive alignment

Breath without falter
That’s what I put at the altar

Visions of what I wish I could be
But that isn’t me

I’m sorry
And for what I may never know
This was the first poem I ever wrote. It stuck in my head for hours until I wrote it down.
That was four years ago.

I am still able to recite it from memory.


nja Aug 2019
She worships you. Your sinful indulgence and all.
She laps up your grey blood
and nourishes her flab on your staleness.
On her weaknesses and confessions you elevate yourself.
The altar cracks.
She darts to heel your splinter but her limbs are broken under the collapse.
Upset at her lack of agency and engrossed in prayer she drowns herself in her own tears unknowingly.
In the end your ***** amassed.
An unexpected end to a story of fatherly shepherding.
See not every story has a Noah and his Arc,
most end with the egotistical on the altar, and the saints martyred in the gutter.
Sacrifice is still bloodshed.
Criticisms of the Church.
annh May 2019
Sleep stands at the altar of today’s sacrifice,
Knife poised to plunge at the heart of the matter,
Knife poised to plunge at the heart of the matter,
Knife poised...
‘I’ve always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.’
- David Benioff, City of Thieves
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