Ask of the dagger I hurled at the beast across the room
Its wicked howl vibrating about my being
as it buried its fangs in its own dull heart
Ask of the white stained carcass wrapped in charcoal blood

I could talk of the glorious cliff and the reluctant child
seduced by the oblivion of the world below
But that’s hardly the tragedy I wish
to engrave on the stone made soley for my love's corpse

What of the silent repression of the inevitable sea;
its claws in your throat, its chains pulling you under
The only thing to come out: mere remnants of bubbles
embodying the muffled screams of the dead

I could talk of a caged bird
fantasising the sky being pure definition of freedom
What of its heartless darks that see and unsee the starving stars
What of the sadist winds separating
sons from mothers from daughters from fathers;
hearing and unhearing their pleas

Ask of the endless nights of my quiet talks with the moon
Its wicked words reeking with hope,
blooming and wilting around the night
Ask of the hollow flaw left untouched in the middle of the sky
Light extends her arms and creeps in,
she asks for help but we’re all asleep

I could talk of sleepless nights and lazy days—
vivid afternoons curling up way too fast in the dusk—
but that’s hardly a tragedy you’d like to hear
Ask of the dagger I hurled across the void
hoping to rip open another hole in the sky
so the moon would not be lonely when I finally went to sleep
but it never was lonely, no thanks to my blade

What of the silver blade
He shot for the sky but but fell in love with the moon
kissing open her jagged lips- and banishing away
moonlight bleeds out the scarred crescent
Ask for I'll tell you the stories composed with finest of runes

Like when the girl befriended the beast
not for its arousing shine that felt like velvet on the cobblestone dark
but the scars that she, so lovingly, drew on its body
matching every curve - every bruise - to her own
so painful yet hardly at all, so visible yet not in the least
It was the most beautiful tragedy I had ever seen

this restless beast
i need to tame
gnawing at my stomach
setting fires to my cerebral
chewing at my throat
begging for attention
this restless beast
always rejects obedience
howling for affection
like a ******* mongrel
if it's voice becomes a whimper
can it be feminine again
i want my makeup to wash off
as more than war paint
i want to feel beautiful
without seeking validation
i want to shake
this restless beast
ruining my relationships
entertaining wicked thoughts
wrecking my sleep schedule
stepping on my neck
i never asked to own
this worn out excuse for a companion
but if it doesn't get lost soon
i'll ******* **** it

R.I.P.
by Michael R. Burch

When I am lain to rest
and my soul is no longer intact,
but dissolving, like a sunset
diminishing to the west ...

and when at last
before His throne my past
is put to test
and the demons and the Beast

await to feast
on any morsel downward cast,
while the vapors of impermanence
cling, smelling of damask ...

then let me go, and do not weep
if I am left to sleep,
to sleep and never dream, or dream, perhaps,
only a little longer and more deep.

Published by Romantics Quarterly and The Chained Muse. This is an early poem from my “Romantic Period” that was probably written in my late teens. Keywords/Tags: death, eternity, eternal rest, sunset, west, demons, beast, judgment, sleep, dream, nightfall, night, throne, vapor, vapors, impermanence

Become the beast,
look in the mirror,
stop hiding,
observe the splinters
of the lies burrowed within,
embrace the bitter pain,
as you accept the hypocrisy
of the lies, listen to the
howls of your hunger
for the vicious revenge,
as you lead the pack,
of the hidden fire in
your soul,
livid.

tale as old as time
a gram to get inside your mind
find a space to settle down
trip into alternate realm
away from sorrow
away from pain
this is your big release
beauty and the beast