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All the books I read are sealed
the words are pretty
and not empty
so don't talk to me unless
you do expensive pain
money
Faded as that 90’s graffiti on the train station walls,
Old locomotives, their engines cease to spin and sputter.
Little mice, too famished in their task, caress cogs and messages,
From places, too dark to read, the notes pile up.
Some, I think, may be blank.
Some, I could not read, as I scribbled those promises too fast.
A great mound of empty words made from a tree now dead.
The cogs move no more, I doubt they were ever connected before…


In line for a one-way ticket out of this grave land,
My baggage gripped tight with both hands- makes it difficult to keep in check,
I try to hide it with a smile, no one offers to help.
Surprisingly sullen, my every movement seems to echo from bold, cold walls,
The insignia behind the ticket master’s house is sprayed in red and it reads:
‘This was always a one-way trip’
I bite my lip, try to understand how to turn menace into sand,
This station is run by ghosts. I can feel them watching from holes in the wall.


I was asked by a stranger, “why did you come here”,
My staggered recoil from justice and reason must have been enough,
When I looked back, my persecutor was lost to an empty hall,
And the bones of this room can be seen when it breathes,
So clear, not seen the sun shine in a long time,
Startled like a bird falling into a pool, I wonder why I came here at all.


I talk to the ticket officer, this hat worn low, talking from a dark place,
I want to know, “the time of the next train please”,
But the man only holds my gaze, from beneath his low cap
Motionless, the spindly man holds all the cards, then blows away into the wind.
Left his own station in search of tracks. Somewhere remote
The sun is shining, and life is dead upon this new day.


Perhaps it is too early, I sit and wait for someone to talk to,
“You know that bag must be awfully heavy, please let me carry it for you”,
I shake my head and grip what is mine a little tighter,
“Don’t be afraid to let me in, I only want to help you free your light”,
But I don’t care for skin or bones, I set down my bag and watch,
The man of bones, with dreams larger than his stake,
Perhaps, if you were not so far away, you would have the strength to exist,
I look up to see the man who tried so frugally,
Met by dead air, perfectly comfortable- without a friend in the world.


I take a stroll down the decrepit tracks, cold air grasps at skin and sense,
Just to see the colour of the rust, and what the reaction was,
The trains and tracks are turning bitter-brown and discoloured purple,
Holes are manifesting themselves into the carriage, much less comfortable than I ever knew.
I step on the dead cartridge, much less comfortable than I ever-
Reliving a time when the carriage was bright, and laughter echoed the halls,
Far down the musky, dark-grey scope, I can hear the faint sobs of a child,
Inevitably, I find the kid, small and frail, sobbing into his hands from under his hat.


“Dear Michael, this carcass is the last place that I expected to find you”,
I kneel down beside the boy and tell him what comes from inside”
“You didn’t spend much time here when we were alive, I am leaving you Michael, your world is cold and dead”.
The boy trembles before sobbing turns to cold laughter,
He lifts his head and I peer into two dark and empty sockets,
Pristine, white bones contrast the encroaching darkness,
Michael tells me: “There is no leaving this place”.


The skeleton child’s words are empty.


A little while down the track, darkness pours from every crack,
Each train looks as dead as the one that was mine,
I follow a trail of disfunction to the end of the line,
Where I find a train, most unlike the rest, its silky black skin has been kept intact,
Monstrous, foreboding and intimidating, the conductor keeps the fire stoked,
Red mist puffs from the window, horror stagnant beauty feels and flows.


The walls of the carriage are meticulously decorated,
Framed pictures resting on crimson silk, a life frozen in time,
I am not welcome here,
Presently, a feral scream from far away- the engine room,
A mad man armed with fire eyed fury,
Jackal Rushes through moment and memory in fear and panic,
The first thing in this nightmare clad in skin,
The man stands still, full height, coloured in… I look into his eyes:


I fall back through twisted carriages.
Light.
Butterflies protecting fire from rain.
I sleep safe knowing that no one thinks of me.
I am writing a book. One day a character wanted to say something...
Each day I writing book.
I writing book about life.
The letters, sentences, commas, points.
My book is full of the experiences. My book is full of ascents and falls. My book is full of pain and disappointments.
My book is full of warmth and love.
My book is full of lessons.
My book I named a life.
Chicken Sep 22
In my wisdom
I am folly
Like a fool
With a skip in my step
Singing obliviously
Despite the
Knowledge of
An oncoming cliff edge

In my wealth
I am poverty
Holding on
For dear life
Like a barnacle
That has nothing
Yet knows everything
All there is

In my seed
I am desolate
Like a silent blueprint
Dispensed with
By the elements
Carrying all there is,
Was, and ever will be
Waiting patiently

In my life
I am death
Like a dark rider
Claiming every breath
Baring teeth
Baring bones
Bearing with all
Home from home

In my dominance
I am submission
A no
And a yes
A yes
And a no
Knowing that no thing
Is all that one needs to know

In my peace
I am war
Like a fire
That is fighting
And like a fire
That is warming
Destroying all into nothing
The unknown

In my grace
I am wretched
Like a stick
Being shaken
Time and
Time again
Knowing that
It does not exist.
It’s a Grimoire, so you can read daily for a while for a benefit. The purpose of it is balancing the notions of polarities within.  It might not be here long so enjoy ! When you read it, you read it to yourself, your own very essence, felt within, it is for you.
Poetic T Sep 20
They say life's
  
        A story.

Me, I never read mine.
    

I lived it, who wants to know
     The beginning and the ending.

live your story,
     Skip chapters,

Remember your writing it.
Mark Sep 12
Liking all the latest pics
From the keyboard of my device
Posting all the time
Push a button to make a dime
Gathering members from afar
I'm a star

Why did he have to reinvent the book
By typing right here, everything you need
He plugged us in, created social network for greed
The info guru of the whole **** world
That's why he had to reinvent the book

We feel your caution behind the firewall
Finding an app to help us all
It's paradise when your video goes viral
Accepting new friends you've never met
Want to make a bet?

Why did he have to reinvent the book
By typing right here, everything you need
He plugged us in, created social network for greed
The info guru of the whole **** world
That's why he had to reinvent the book

Making it feel more like a celebration
Spreading the likes and dislikes
To a whole new generation
More like New World Order of sanitisation

That's why he had to
That's why he had to
That's why he had to, reinvent the book.
Tanya Sep 10
I pick up our memories
like forgotten dusty books
my gentle touch is a remedy
for the thin paper that lonely hurts

dark library is where I choose to read
dark, with nothing on its shelves
except you and me

chapters of love
chapters of sadness
there is one of forgiveness
several of madness

words written but never spoken
love present, still unbroken  
memories inking my mind
I try to leave you behind

I’m still reading, holding your hand
I can’t pronounce it
or maybe i can.
Bad Vibes Sep 7
The light touch of the silk on my breast brings me back to you.

It brings me back to that dance floor with my body pressed up against yours like the cover of a book and it's pages.

It brings me back to your fingertips - a stone skip across my skin.

It brings me back to your hands holding my face and your lips on mine.

It brings me back to that night in the snow where your body was the only source of heat I needed.

You are a chapter that I will never forget - the one that I will reread over and over again until the words come to life off the page.



-t.s.
at the tips of my fingers

and in the palms of my hands

on the backs of my eyelids, where sleep should be

between fanciful flower petals, dead since long ago

upon the fabric of my dress, where your hand met my waist

within books and doors slammed shut, a restless cacophony

from falling rain, polluted by quixotic aspiration

under the breath swept from my mouth, in a

prayer that i am not in love with you
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