those who seek flame see fires everywhere,
one's lifebuoy's but an anchor to the sinking.
where there's a fear of dark, there's fear of blinking,
for even momentary blindness makes you lose the way.

so many things were tempered with to always keep us scared,
on edge and waiting for the blade to drop when we're not thinking.
one's lifebuoy's but an anchor to the sinking,
those who seek flame see fires everywhere.

Can you imagine,
that day,
the cataclysm came?
Red horses, ride sanguine, mammoth waves.
The foaming flotsam, screams of despair.
Fear, hastily, carrying your loved ones, away.

Can you imagine,
that day,
the cataclysm came?
Mouths, where remarks, went to their graves.
Popcorned grief, by the handful, to share.
All over lands, desolate, embodied litter, lay.

Can you imagine,
that day,
the cataclysm came?
Futures, stubbed out, by cigaretting staves.
Clung nooses, made of, shoulder-length, hair.
Burnt edges, making skins, constantly, fray.

Can you imagine,
that day,
the cataclysm came?
Water, smoke and fire, devouring the caves.
Untold, vast, abyssal infernos, consume reeky lairs.
Inky, sapphire, carmine, chews leaden decay.

Can you imagine,
that day,
the cataclysm came?

Can you imagine,
the bray, that came,
from mother nature's, justice-shaped, shame?

You won't have to imagine,
for long,
it's, already, on it's way...

Can you imagine,
what they'll say,
when,
the cataclysm came?

© poormansdreams

Full of riches
Full of hearts
Trust, a commodity
So easily traded
For what was never promised
A kiss of death
A millstone carried
For no reward but
My own
Self-destructive
Satisfaction
How deliciously
I cut and seared
My own flesh
Savoring
Each flaying stroke
How beautifully
My body twisted
To fit the tale
I wished were true
With wounds still fresh
From the biting needle
That tattooed the lie
On my desperate
Wanting soul

I was once the calm before the storm,
Soft-spoken, eager to please.
I bent and bowed to every demand,
Hoping for some small reprieve.

I was the sun behind the clouds,
A gentle light to guide.
But you saw me as weak, as nothing at all—
Just someone you could bide.

You shaped me with your empty words,
Your lies, your games, your hate.
You laughed as I stumbled and fell,
Thinking I’d accept my fate.

I silenced my voice to soothe your pride,
I smiled through all your games.
I stitched my wounds with fragile hope,
Yet you fed them with your flames.

But storms don’t stay quiet forever,
And wounds don’t heal by chance.
I picked myself up from the wreck you made,
And now I rise, not dance.




I did not create the storm—
I simply became it.
I did not leave it all to chance,
Though that's what you named it.

You called me fragile, weak, a pawn,
A shadow beneath your rule.
But every whisper, every slight—
You fed the fire of a fool.

And now the fool stands cloaked in rage,
Her fury sharp and wild.
You played your games, you stacked your cards,
But you forgot—storms have a child.




You’ll taste the ruin you left behind,
Feel the wreckage you thought was mine.
Each word you spoke to tear me down
Will now burn through your spine.

I am the echo of all you’ve done,
The screams you tried to drown.
The wrecking wind, the searing rain—
I’ll bring it all crashing down.

You’ll hear my name in the howling winds,
Feel my wrath in the quake.
You stole my peace, you shattered my soul
Now the storm is wide awake.


No mercy will I leave in my path,
No corner safe to hide.
Each piece of your fragile world will fall—
I’ll rip it from inside.


Your lies will hang like broken glass,
Cutting through your pride.
And every tear you tried to deny,
Will flood you like the tide.

A reckoning is coming, dear,
You’ll beg for the pain to end.
But this isn’t justice—it’s destruction’s kiss,
A storm you cannot mend.

You’ll know the torment you inflicted,
Feel the cold blade of regret.
For every wound you carved in me,
I’ll leave your soul in debt.


Let your castles crumble, your masks dissolve,
Let chaos reign supreme.
I’ll unravel your world brick by brick
Your life will be my dream.

And when the storm has taken all,
When nothing of you remains,
You’ll finally see the power you gave
To the storm born of your games.

The ramshackled town falls quiet
to the artist’s eye in the retreating light.
The old houses will truce their aged lumber,
antiquity, for the invading dark beauty of his creation.

He lived here once as a boy, in the sadness of his angels,
held hostage (he thought), by the catechism of  church
and steeple, becoming  a refugee from sawdust and faith,
believing being an exile will open his eyes to the truth.

He had returned from his long sojourn in the East
after seeing and experiencing the freedom of the world,
determined to posses this tract, once green space,the mountain beyond— to surrender it all, to the truth he  knew.


The canvas submitted to his violence.  The brushes
knew again, the small wars between mind and nature.
The hunger, the hunger, the hunger of eternal creation  
that rises from the wanderlust in every artist and poet.    

He did not listen to their prayers for mercy.
He wailed in his starvation “Come! Come!”
The shades of town, mountain, flower, deer, came.
And, as he must, he destroyed and devoured it all.