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Ken Mears Nov 4
Death rides at midnight

Filling the land with blight

He casts a frightful image

As he rides through the village

His frightful scythe gleams

Wet with the blood of unrealized dreams

The cold, hard metal

Is uncaring enough to unsettle

Beneath his dark hood

Lies nothing good

Only the husk of a man

Who signals the end of a lifespan

His skeletal horse

He rides along his dutiful course

Whinnying as he stops

To **** the farmer's crops

Solemn is his duty

To take away life's beauty

Unbearable to a living man

The underworld's ghastly helmsman

The pistol is his herald

In his black cloak appareled

Weapons of war

Bring him to the door

His job is made no easier

Nor and breezier

By mankinds love of violence

Or vile fraudulence

All the thousands of young souls

Lives lost without completing their goals

Brought to a swift end

By Death only to attend

Death rides at midnight

Filling the land with blight

He casts a frightful image

As he rides through the village

Searching for souls to pillage
I seem to lean
into my shadows, failures and faults.
That ***** too natural
and my downward leaning too easy.

What darkness have I learned?
What sullen seed has
merged into the deeper passages
to transform
into thorns?

Is it my repeated stumblings
or the sin of another
inflicted early
but now forgotten?
Maybe it’s so terrible
my mind has stashed it way way down
now a fungus still alive in the dark?

I feel too at home
dwelling in that cave
and I am in need,
I am sorely in need
of light,
enough lasting exposure
to **** the blight
scorch the itch
and set me leaning
into an upward pitch
to thwart the dark

Cat Mar 31
Wars rage in my skull
I’m enraged and unfed
Constantly fleeing my debts of death and unsaid
I can’t make bets that they’re right, because they’re always right
They’re all definitely right
They’re shaken with fright
From the blight of my actions
All they ever wanted, Was to offer me gold,
Which percolated from deep within the cracks of their palms that were held wide open
They dressed in all white, while I dressed all black.
My insides are black and my eyes are magenta
You would never believe that my head has it’s own detailed corrigenda
And believe it or not, this whole time, my agenda,
Was only ever to retrieve an achievement of bliss.
astraea Oct 2018
i should be listening to music,
while writing love poems.
but i’m busy,
and all i can manage is a short little note,
about something else.

my mind feels like clean paper today,
fresh and beautiful.
it’s been filled with the brightest colors
-someone telling me i’m beautiful,
someone loving my words,
someone whispering promises of heaven in a song.

it’s been filled with bright-eyed questions,
but always feeling oh so very right.
i feel oh so very right.

i ignore this small twinge in my gut,
my life is going so well,
that i do not doubt.
but i ignore that small twinge in gut,
when someone said i could be cured.

their face appears everywhere,
and their face is my mother’s inspiration.
does she think i can be cured?

i am the perfect daughter.
i study, i volunteer.
i am happy, i am kind.
i am in clubs. i am good with my friends,
reasonable and responsible.
but there’s a blight she doesn’t know -a blight that is not a disease.
but when your inspiration tells you so, would you dismiss it as an interesting view?
would you believe it if you knew my blight? or would you forget?

i, i can only describe my blight as bright.
i have been told i light, like every color in the world.
for once, i feel right.
i may not fit in, but i know the lines on which i walk.
or i know how to walk.

because you told me, to hear someone who said i was bright.
because you have always supported what i am.
Blade Maiden Oct 2018

This ripe darkness
this mourning dream
a wrenching weakness
fit for the guillotine

An arrangement made
sheer comfort prepared
the end of fate
and, oh, how I dared

This dry paper
this cold pit
an agonising vapor
that smells of blood and spit

'Tis my mind
my wicked flesh
a soul pined
peeled off and fresh

Dressed soft tongued
I raised Cain
being shunned
silenced I remain

This dawning fright
this nightly echo
here comes the blight
light, don't let go
the wind that howls in the deepest night
is a comforting sound
the dog that moans in the earliest light
is a soulmate found
I abhor the thought of wistful bliss
of nervous laughter unprovoked
I slip into my warm abyss
this sea of pain on which I choke
I wade in pools of sought despair
while punks seek out their mothers
I dance on floors of rotted wood
and sing to ghosts of lovers
I find it my salvation
to document this pain
to analyze the demons
and revel in the rain
perhaps one day I'll leave this place
and walk into the Sun
to share the light of happiness
content my deed is done
whole new crop of oldies I discovered. (revised) I will mix old and new.
PoserPersona Jul 2018
In the cusp of closing night, I look into your weary eyes;
once outshining city lights. I see no way to realize
the healing of this blight - I venture to make a phoenix cry.
Remedy of such mythos might, might just prove unjust lies.
Chance restoring your ere vacant sight - fighting soul’s primal guide.
As any chance to restore my bride, binds our fractured lives.

...No words to describe affliction already decided.
trolls have a lot of idle time
on their aggravating hands
and it has been noticed that
they move in trolling bands

were these individuals to
find a more useful pastime
others wouldn't be sensing
their provocative lime

oh yes the trolls are well
and truly on the loose
causing much mayhem like
an uninhibited moose

they patrol both by day
and by night
dispensing their plaguing
sort of blight

if you've ever felt a troll
breathing down your neck
it'll make you cry out get
the abhor off my deck
Michael King Apr 2018
He swims upon the lake and swell.
Inside the waters where she fell
on that moonlit winter morn.
All alone and now all gone.

Within that wet, that lake of ice,
he spots her shade. Not once but twice.
She's smiling still, all hope and bells
just like she looked before she fell.

Oh Cre'Atus, please cut her loose,
his words fall dead like neck and noose.
And so he swims, his body cold,
in hope his heart gives in and folds.

This longing hits, and loneliness
becomes his friend, as bitterness
invades his soul, has come to linger
in this man once known as Wind Singer.

Of wind was he, and in his rhymes
there would be joy and better times.
His lips would purse,  his whistles call
and all the birds from sky would fall

into his home, a barren field.
A homely place, with little yield,
but tenderness, this man would give
to all the beasts and birds that live.

Inside the woods, he passed with light
around his feet, and in the bright
green heart of leaves and trees he chimed
with each pure whistle. Each soft rhyme.

He met her there, a girl of peace
so great her smile should never cease
and from that moment he knew joy.
An angels face. Heavens envoy.

He took her in, and showed the world
how God had surely carved this girl
from summer winds, and autumn song.
She stayed with him, where she belonged.

They walked the fields, the barren soil,
but with her laugh and through their toil,
the lands became a place of worth.
A place renowned throughout the Earth.

The love he knew. The heart they shared.
And every time he showed he cared
her love would swell. So would her life.
And so, he took her as his wife.

Time passed by quickly...

The nights grew long. The trees grew old.
The starlight those days seemed so cold.
The fields were bare. The harvest cleaned.
Their home was peaceful and serene.

But shadows crept within the trees,
so soft, so harsh, like a disease
it swept upon the woods and beasts
until all life had surely ceased.

There man and wife, unknowing still,
knew not their lands had fallen ill
with taint and shadow,  dark refined.
They sat in bliss while light declined

around their hearth. Around their love,
until the shade, wrapped like a glove
their home and with it in it's might
it weaved a spell, their hearts couldn't fight.

In fear she fled, and in her stead,
her husband stayed behind and bled
as he took arms and fought this fiend
with strength in men, so rarely seen.

At last he overcame his foe.
Threw down this dark, had overthrown,
but not victory or respite
had he,  for where now was his wife?

He fled into the trees and brush,
past deadened trees which once were lush.
Past beastly corpse, and silenced bird.
He called her name until he heard

a song, a sound. The heart of her.
He ran toward the sound in fear,
that he should somehow lose his light.
Should suffer loss because of blight.

And there he saw his beauty fair.
Against the sky he saw her there,
upon a cliff top, doomed to fall.
She answered not. Heeded no call.

In her despair her senses fled.
In her fear, panic in her head,
She saw her husband dead on the floor.
No more love. No more! No more!

And so as all the tales have told,
this lady fair. This beauty old,
jumped to the sky and met her fate.
The husband came, but was too late.

He screamed his pain to the skies.
'What was it for, Cre'Atus, why?!'
But silence met his pained demand,
and so he jumped, took life in hand,

but fate was not with him that day.
This life was not for him to slay
and he lived, he still breathed, still fought
against the death his loss had bought

for what is life without her near.
Why exist without her here?
Why go on within his fields,
alone, no song to grow the yield?

And so he swims within the swell.
Inside the waters where she fell.
His love is lost, straight to his core.
The Wind Singer will sing no more.
Scarlet M Jan 2018
Loving someone despite knowing
it is never going to last
is the worst human
tragedy there
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