Faded gilding, rubbed through to cracking, flaking wood.
A glamour of ages, sliding, flies to the breeze.

The little bird perches on a once-fine moulding;
Head tilted, one bright eye turned towards the mantle
where a half-blind mercurised mirror barely reflects
an army of creeping vines, consuming naked angels
and the God of this house.

Our hero’s velvets are ruined, dripping and eaten through.
Where riches have lived, decay succeeds.
Nature’s velvets; opulent mosses and emerald lichens
are devouring damask
and smoothing over marbled hardness.

The bird listens for footsteps.
The lady would scatter crumbs on the windowsill
and he would flutter, unafraid,
to peck at her sweet feast.

Once, she drew him.
Fine-lining passerine delicacy,
her pencils fetched him,
and bestowed him an artist’s nobility.
He turned, this way and that,
flashing gold-touched wings,
miming a duchess snapping open a fan.

She’s gone now,
and so have the crumbs.
The bird senses no sugar on the sill,
nor the faintest reminiscence
of lavender perfume, glittering as star bursts
at the hollow of her throat.

He sings regardless,
a mournful beauty
longing to return to a glorious, lustful age,
where light refracted in cut crystal,
danced upon frescoes
and illuminated the ugly –
- to render them enchanting.

He swoops to dance on the mantle,
answered by the mirror
and sits a while, preening.

The gentlemen and ladies are gone forever.
Ejected from history to echo as ghosts of fancy and excess,
undeserving of remembrance or pity.

The bird will never forget.
And knots up secrets
kept tightly in his breast,
committed to his tiny, fierce heart.
The Goldfinch is my favourite bird - both owing to its numerous appearances in Renaissance art and as the silent protagonist in Donna Tartt's book bearing its name.
I stand stunned, reminiscing all too recent events, at their very location, just to see how it felt...

After the wreck, I looked back... just for a moment. I couldn't help myself.
I saw what it was... And it was you, but  yet someone else.

I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes.
I guess it's true what they say, "you never truly step in the same stream twice."

I walk away with a smile and think, "oh, how nice!"
In hindsight, the grass actually was greener on the other side.
Inked Quill Aug 7
Decay marks my soul

Locked in cage
Hung above the waves

Despair coming in wavelets
A yearn that aches
Smitten by rotten stench
There is no more room to wander,
within the wild, blue yonder.
All the skies and seas are dead to explore.
No new ports, forgotten resorts; a lack
of virgin shores for rich men to ravish,
in search of riches much more.
Sea-faring clime possessed on the backs of child,
rode as destiny manifest,
wrote during storm, through mild.
More words than shores coalesced.

But the words explode from me—
Like some powerful wave meant only
To wash things that should not be, away.
Every syllable hovering, quivering
At the corners of my mouth—
As they carry me to beaches where feet
walk less timid, walk with less freedom
than I could ever hope to possess.

If we must be in hope and wish for probity,
in the minds and hearts and waters at sea.
Lift from masthead our daughters and brides,
so they last instead until martrimony decree.
And when vows written in logs of Captain
are all we accomplish lead by sextant see.
All things are permissible deep in our dreams,
yet chapel bell is rung not by sexton, but me.

I am my own Captain—
Luring those splashing wanderers not to safety—
I lead them to drown with me.
The extra weight needed, begged for
So that we may appear as a sixteenth century painting
Brushes stroked in the last sip of black tea
to mimic some reality
Ive only touched myself to in sleep.

We are agasp toward bottoms, and fall from heights.
Whereas one of us sinks,
the other heaves into dives.
We are without fathom,
as water stings our eyes blind.
Struggle, you cannot lack fight, it will happen
whether you wish.
We are both rats, a Captain between us,
forgoing a sinking ship.
You abhor tradition in lieu to survive.

Set it afire,
So we can watch from underneath
As through some television screen
The world we knew, we know
rise up in smoke to signal no one.
collaborative poem i did with a friend for a poetry event
"Many Conversations At Once" -- We traded stanzas back and forth

amid the decaying bones of love
a voracious mould did
its coverage was of a dark

interred in the tomb
were lamentable strains of
all of love's happiness
being starved of

a nothingness resided within
this gloomy and dismal
all fulfillment had drained
from love's promising

in the depths of the grave
love's rich marrow did
was an awful pall for the two
to have come to such a

as the worms took sustenance
upon the couple's once living
they did taste the bitterness
of love's
Maida Rasool Jul 19
what are you going to do when your body's lowered?
alone in the dark with only your past.
blurred vision
drowning in delirium
what are you going to do when your body's ready to decay?
you really thought you were here to stay
what difference to the world have you really made
think again my friend
because it could all change
today actually just might be your day
Poetic T Jun 23
Picture perfect perception
of what washes
                      over observations
of what we saw,
         loitering over soiled sheets.

We gestated over what we thought
                        was a perfect portrait.
But beneath solid reflections we slept on.

Moths of discontent chew beneath the
        layers of what we dress
                                         our relationship on.
Decaying virtues, they show disrepair of
what you painted. But its eroded beyond
contemplation, nothing is as our sight verses it.
mercy party Jun 23
just look out the window,
try to forget it
it should be easy since you're the one who left
and lit a new cigarette
where witching hours were spent
there is breath on your breath

i havent emptied a frame yet,
i can't believe it
and now i've only said
empty words

i watch the hourglass in your eyes
you'll be gone by sunrise
and deaf by dawn
so you wont hear these songs
i wrote along the way
over the last decades of slow decay
Geanna Jun 19
Melt away, let your body decay
while you're away, you'll make them pay
Tears are shed, cries are heard
You're free now, as free as a bird
~ G.P.O
Orange Rose Jun 16
The Garden should not keep its name.
It’s soil is filled with stone,
And weeds too thick and wild to tame.
One lily stands alone.

Her petals like a bridal gown,
She seems to bloom with pride.
A spot of white amongst the brown,
Too radiant to hide.

The vines have shown her mercy,
They tangle where they lie.
She bows as though in curtsy,
When it’s time for her to die.

Her gown is turning brown like mud,
But still she goes with grace.
She knows that soon another bud,
Will bloom to take her place.
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