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Lostling 20h
Some days you’re tired
And the silence no longer welcomes you
But burrows into your soul, sealing it in a straight jacket
Sometimes the world is too bright
And the darkness no longer brings comfort.
Yet darkness is the only way you can bear
To live in your skin.
Some nights music sounds like mourning
And quiet sobs, screams.
And it hurts.
It hurts so much
Down Day
I just want peace but I can’t have it
This is the essence of fear.
It is weak, it is not holy.
While fear is natural, and there is no shame in feeling it,
it is not strong.
It whispers to us in the dark and hides its face in the light.
Nothing holy shrouds itself in disgrace when illuminated by the light.
This is the reason why Satan and his cunning whispers of fear flee in the presence of God,
because they do not belong where God treads.

-Rhia Clay

in the swollen grass
there is wither-month

upon which the brutes
come and find shelter

hewn in shape
of grief

moth-bitten maps
torn in halves

theirs the flesh
of seasons

ripened canaille
of shorn sculptures

bruised fingers
that say
"there is no meadow"

as though harvest
pours in spring

and sparrows spiral
in salted hymns

so shall the night hour
wilt the porcelain moon

hung against the
slivered brume

gathering quietude
on the shelves of the
shepherds


This poem reflects on a place that appears serene but is steeped in quiet sorrow. What seems like a meadow becomes a symbol of memory, decay, and disillusionment. It speaks to the weight of time, of seasons that don’t heal, and of fragile beauty clinging to loss — where even sparrows sing lament.
Where the light does not enter
Is where I’ll find you entombed,
I can feel your heartbeat
Whispers carried by a sigh of the weather
A zephyr rustling through every fiber
Breathing through my sleeves.

I hear you.
I feel you.

Where the moon shies behind
The cover of black satin cloud,
I’ll take you under dead oak canopies
In your polished cherry wood chariot
Where the nocturnal ones scurry,
As I park you past where  their toe-tapping susurrus
Leaves a gentle tuft of leaves like a gentle blanket.

Within the cusp of deep dusk
And the heart of the sylvan columns
Red-eyed ****** watching from tree tops
Hooting in encouraged delight,
As I open your door,
Adoring the way you rest so peacefully.

Whisper sweet
Into the thick of the fog
Rolling through like a clashing wave of cool, misty cover
As bats screech and ballet across the black sky
Where the smattering of glittery diamonds
Sparkle just for you, if you would open your eyes.

I uncork my vineyard's bounty
As the red drips and pours over your alabaster face
Across those unchanged but chapped pink lips,
As sapphire eyes shoot awake like a Narcan spike
I am met with your embrace and a kiss to the palm,
Lapping up the elixir, you savor it like a favorite flavor
And I know I have done well.

I hear you,
I feel you,
Countess.
Inspired by the chorus to "Bleeding Mascara" by Atreyu: "Look how pretty she is when she falls down
Now there's no beauty in bleeding mascara
Her lips are quivering like a withering rose
She's back again"
Chamse 2d
Nights are getting shorter
Condemning me
The stars, the moon pity me
I don't mean to rhyme
But can you blame me for trying
Words betray me each time i mention you
Your name scares the ink in my pen
So I'm writing in blood
Now i will keep writing your name
Until i forget mine
Until all i see is red
It keeps flowing
It will never end
It's that feeling you get when you remember your dead pet
Sorry it sounds random
I'm tired of existing
Not everything has a meaning
When you think it does
You get hurt
I looked into your eyes, and never before had I loved someone's darkness as much as their light.
I knew that you would be my undoing, and that I would be yours.

-Rhia Clay

there are ghosts
on the roof again

they whisper
through leaking vents
and broken antennas

perfumed rot
and cheap whiskey
spill from the sink

the strays sing elegies
to the moonlight
that never comes

TV static hums
like a low prayer
in a godless chapel

we scratch
our names
on telephone poles
like saints
begging to be believed

in alleyways
children paint murals
of uncanny valleys

fables
wear labels
and reach
for Abel’s throat

every lie
is someone’s faith

even the stars
have turned
to watch

but you don’t
need eyes
to read the ruin


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