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Seán Mac Falls Dec 2014
Hard rain tapping head  .  .  .
Winter gales come from nowhere,
  .  .  .  What are they saying?
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2014
.
Others would scream,
The burning, the flame—
Such seering cold and hollow
Open grave, if they could ever
Breathe in as the dirt piled on
And the graveyard rushed, fell
To bury all that was, doffed flesh
My torment and pain, of my loss,
A name as even the wind forgot
As it wailed, lost, lone, keening
After banshee had spoken,
No— in my skin, others
Would pray, forgive.
The banshee (or banchee), from Irish: bean sí [bʲæn ˈʃiː] ("woman of the barrows") is a female spirit in Irish mythology, usually seen as an omen of death and a messenger from the underworld.

In legend, a banshee is a faery woman who begins to wail if someone is about to die. In Scottish Gaelic mythology, she is known as the bean sìth or bean nighe and is seen washing the bloodstained clothes or armour of those who are about to die. Alleged sightings of banshees have been reported as recently as 1948.  Similar beings are also found in Welsh, Norse and American folklore.
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2014
Rain fell in commotions—
The birds would have none of it,
The moon bellowed in ghostly white,
Faced in the sprite, ringing indifference
Of low fading stars, trees in posted dark
Scratched the grasslands of the fallen
Firmaments and the small creatures
That are holed up in days, scurried
With the creep of night and moan
Of oceans slide, mangled clouds
Clutched the murky burn of sky
And smallish eyes everywhen
Shuddered in the frosts
Of a shuttering rose.
Jennifer Weiss Oct 2014
There's a feeling
I sometimes get...
I am not entirely
sure I can describe
it yet.
It aches in ways
I do not recognize,
there's a shine of terror
behind my eyes.
I look at this mirror
held up to
my disguise.
It rips away all my
neat
&
pretty
little lies.

It sounds awful.
I know fully,
and not at all
this is the
experience of
  being alive.
But I'm wiser,
and better
and me
So... I keep asking
the sky why...
I am still human.
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2014
Four crows, black on cloud,
Dark, sordid wings parry and ******—
Murdering white skies.
Hiba Samad Aug 2014
She still lay hunched over,
It had all happened in a blur,
She tried not to recall,
But it was all she could do about,
What happened was;
A nightmare, devastation.
Her innocence corrupted, like the gum on the road
Under her nose.
It was happening
She had just become another victim,
A possibilty she had never phantomed,
She listened to her heart's rythum,
She wished for it to stop,
She tried and tried,
To wipe her tears,
To muffle her sobs,
To get up and run,
But all she could do was,
To think what he had done.
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