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Fheyra May 19
Farewell, no—
Not a crow,—
But a lapse of lightning,
Flashes in films— with rocks thrown on a brim—
Creating verges on waters,
As it expands,— a mirror was formed
But shrubs are sobbing,— As the fog meddles with the river— So blinding; Then the mirror disappears
When droplets keep dripping,—
I could not see anymore..

"Find me..find me.."
Who are you?— "Find me.."
Are you a wolf from another pack?—"find me.."— Were you buried? — A breath? Or only pieces?— "find me.."
To be revived below the tree is a befuddling been..
"Find me.."
Somewhere, you are;
Somewhere, you will be—
I will find you..

In the misty voids, I followed you— and submerged to your world
The assuage of none,— oh, 'tis an eerie coldness—
Of belabouring sorrows and haunted dreams
The maze of narration leads to this path—
Summons the whispers of bushes that kept breathing and moving..—
Closer and closer..

In the silence— I sneak;
Someone screams,
—Run and run; Never look back— For shadows are treacherous trolls,— Seducing temples—
Enshroud the wilderness to frighten the all grown..
—"I shall call you once more."

Suddenly, I tripped to the quarry
Serpents hissing; The Arachnids are stalking—
"Where is my fire?!"— I rattled to tend
One foot back— Murmurs chanting rituals to this goose
Spill embers! Spill embers!
Fiery torches cast my foes!
Now, I could escape.

No!— The ravens,
I shall not be abducted
Hastily, I blew my feet—To leap in sleek,— As to surpass the endless drear—
I am not a kin to your lair..

Hence, I was a fool
Befallen is me,—
When I stepped to the end side of knoll
This rebel is a victim of sheer torn scheme
Help me..
I need to find you..
Help me.. Please, help me..

A nowhere eagle swooped me from my lore
Bounce away from this pity storm,—
And let these wings fly to the morn
The lenient Stratus Clouds— Bolstering my spirit— Up here, there are no hostiles and skulls
That it declared to me, as well,— "Away from your madness— Perpetrators are attracted by insane vigor. Cease grubbling illusions!
You must seek to believe that it is there, and not unknown."
I conformed to my Savior.

"Find me..find me.."
It was more vivid and louder..
The glimpse of gables, I see now— with a Cross at its top
"My eagle, nest me here"
—"You are here..Enter within."

Where am I?— I remember there were smoke and mounds;— Above me were clouds..
Wait, why are you smiling?
I shall pant— for I am petrified by all those obscured hollows,— Quite absurd?— Shake me instead
Now I ask you,—
"Who are you?"

—You found Me!—
Nightmares can devour the soul, and make ourselves lost forever..
This is overcoming death in the representation of dream sequence.
Rose Apr 26
a hot afternoon with blue skies
a lighter shade than the jerseys
beads of sweat
wet like the water meant to consume after
the sun on our backs
I got this.
You got this.
We got this.
The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse
by Michael R. Burch

“I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves [of 30,000 Irish men, women and children], and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there.” – Paddy Maloney of The Chieftans

There was relief there,
and release,
on Île Grosse
in the spreading gorse
and the cry of the wild geese . . .

There was relief there,
without remorse
when the tin whistle lifted its voice
in a tune of artless grief,
piping achingly high and longingly of an island veiled in myth.
And the Celtic cross that stands here tells us, not of their grief,
but of their faith and belief—
like the last soft breath of evening lifting a fallen leaf.

When ravenous famine set all her demons loose,
driving men to the seas like lemmings,
they sought here the clemency of a better life, or death,
and their belief in God gave them hope, a sense of peace.

These were proud men with only their lives to owe,
who sought the liberation of a strange new land.
Now they lie here, ragged row on ragged row,
with only the shadows of their loved ones close at hand.

And each cross, their ancient burden and their glory,
reflects the death of sunlight on their story.

And their tale is sad—but, O, their faith was grand!

Keywords/Tags: Ile Grosse, Celtic, Cross, faith, belief, grief, Ireland, potato, famine
by Michael R. Burch

Vampires are such fragile creatures;
we fear the dark, but the light destroys them . . .
sunlight, or a stake, or a cross—such common things.
Still, late at night, when the bat-like vampire sings,
we heed his voice.

Centuries have taught us:
in shadows danger lurks for those who stray,
and there the vampire bares his yellow fangs
and feels the ancient soul-tormenting pangs.
He has no choice.

We are his prey, plump and fragrant,
and if we pray to avoid him, he prays to find us,
prays to some despotic hooded God
whose benediction is the humid blood
he lusts to taste.

Published by Monumental Moments (Eye Scry Publications), Weirdbook, Gothic Fairy and Raiders’ Digest. Keywords/Tags: vampires, fragile, creatures, stake, cross, dark, darkness, light, bat, bat-like, shadows, fangs, pangs, prey, blood, lust, lusts, red, lips, night, voice, sings, darkness, evil, incarnate, soul, hell, tormented, pale, eyes
What my hands should’ve felt
You took on yourself
When they strapped to the cross
The maker himself
Dez Apr 2
Dear God holy you are
And surpass me by far
Your thoughts I could never understand
But one day I shall see you in glory land
Where I shell utter praises evermore
For you are not some made up folklore
You are the King of Kings
And on you rests my whole being
My words to fall short
Of giving a report
Of your greatness and might
Of which I now do write
For though I now compose
Feeble words to up lift he that arose
One day I shall sing
Praises for eternity to the king
But for now I shall be content
To write my words
And worship you with the birds
And point to you
The only God that’s true
Praise be to your name
None other is the same
I close with this
Though your glories I could ever list
That you are ever great
But you came to earth and set your own fate
To face the cross
And to suffer loss
To save me from they wrath
And to set me on a new path
All for your glory
For this is all your story
Praise to the maker of men
Growly Wolfus Mar 15
I plant the last cross in the frosted ground
of winter marching through the leaves of fall.
The last of my coterie I hadst found
I buried, each covered with a singed pall.
Now in the world of cold, I lie in snow,
mourning the loss of everything I was.
Insanity exuding from my woe
and dreadful curses spouting from my jaws.
Thou art a monster corrupting the world
and spreading dreadful lies of the deeds done.
But soon, behold, the truth to be unfurled!
The news spreadest thee from thy serpent's tongue.
I choosest to complete my final hunt
and punish thee for such a great affront.

Thou hearken not to the grave steps upon the earth now beating.
Dost thou not see, contemptuous fiend, the eyes of death upon thee?
Thou takest from the living world the reason for my being.
And by thy hand, destroy my land, stealest everything from me.
My depraved soul's unearthed
By the Holy Ghost's breath
And given new birth
Out of spiritual death

This wretch is turned 'round
Fit with eyes to believe
A lost sheep is found
And her Shepherd received

My blots are each edited
Out in Christ's fount
His righteousness credited
To my bankrupt account

A prisoner's been pardoned
No debt left to pay
A heart which was hardened
Becomes pliable clay

My life's set apart
Now from worldly regression
Picked out from the start
Made for Christ's own possession

I'm purchased with blood
Shed on Golgotha's tree
A slave bought by God
And fully set free

My sins were all laid
On the head of a Scapegoat
Who carried their weight
To a desert remote

Once an object of wrath
And deserving hell's fire
But Jesus took my bath—
Conflagration of God's ire

So an enemy no more
I'm brought into God's fold
Carried through His door
And out of night's cold

He calls me His child
His heir and His bride
Though once an orphan wild
Now seated at Christ's side

And soon He'll return
When salvation's complete
When no longer I'll yearn
For His own face I'll meet!
We need to cleanse our hearts
As well as wash our hands .
Steve Page Feb 18
Not ornamental,
more fundamental.
Not sentimental,
but rudimental.
And when I wear it
it's very much an intentional
statement of who I am,
how I live
and who I worship.
So, no,
not simply pretty,
but pretty much essential.
The crucifix or the cross can be a fashion statement or a stronger statement of faith - you choose.
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