Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The mist quietly, softly, rests on her face
As she walks through the ravaged forest.
It still whispers to her,
Though the whispers fade.
The last of lasts, she rebukes her title.
Knights of the old, braves of the new,
They no longer bear her insignia.
She is but folklore now,
A reminder of tarnished treasure.
Her wayward compass guides her to forgotten crossroads,
Shrouded in darkness and hollow memories.
I wonder why she settles here?
Is it fear?
Is it acceptance?
Will her light bloom once more?
Or is a tempest raging inside her bruised heart?
How doth the little chupacabra
   Improve his lizard scales:
Abracadabra and candelabra,
   He showers when it hails.  

He licks his lips, and grins a grin
   A bit like an iguana's;
Poisonous drool runs down his chin;
   His teeth are like a piranha's.
According to legend,
if you stare into a mirror,
in a dark room,
lit with candles,
& say "Mary Jane" three times,
while smoking dabs,
you get high as ****.
Let it be. .... (Acrostic)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let it be.
Every time you wonder
That there may not be a God.

I would let it be, let it be ,let it be
The task is yours to solve ,let it be

By assuming you have God spirit within you.
Eventually you will solve it , let it be. !!!  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip November 5th 2018.
The Beatles lyrics are most profound so let it be.
mils Oct 2018
there is a knock on the door
in the dead of night
it's opportunity
trying to **** you again
With stories of folklore
A chaotic unity
Are you a knight?
Or will you complain?
Take a leap,
Or are you too cheap?
D Letwixt Oct 2018
Part 1: (The traveler speaking)

"I follow the winding, the way beyond the farthest places
between trees knotted menacing with darkened faces
under mossy roots that twist and trip with a mischievous cackle
over heights and falls that beckon death's clanking shackle
and if you fall in, lose your precious breath
to tree limbs tangled scratching at vulnerable flesh.

A green roof above and green floor below
but my eyes look ahead, to where the silver meadows did grow
Remorse remembers all that passed before the eye
burnt of fire forgotten and ash was strewn across the sky
and now only memory does remain
of silver meadows and the golden rain.

This land is dampened with the morning dew
that daren't melt but for the light of moon
where mossy things are stowed in sunken places
and beautiful wonders lay behind rock faces,
I know the way, but do not lightly follow
As sunset brings forth demons beyond tomorrow.

I wish to find her: the lady silk
Her hands weaving threads of fates who twist and separate
her threads she brought from those older places past
Where nascent fauns with youthful voices fastly gleam and chatter
and deftly danced to delights in the silver meadows
When all was false and truth was shaded
all liars happily in reflections reflected
pale faces feinted in humorous deception
and all charismatic affectations were familiar expression.
singing songs of passing pleasures in strange dialect
All was serene was silver mirrors reflecting
save the flow of golden liquid cool and still
which seeped from sky to hill and then chalice filled.

I walk to see the lady
who has one eye black and one eye white
and carries a silver knife which- in moonlight flashes bright.
I will wearily watch for it's flashing tomorrow night,
for she doesn't know it, but I was also born of moon's pale light."

Part 2: (The lady singing)

"The meadow shifted softly that fateful night
in breezes blowing warmly and songs of ephemeral delight
melodies swell and shift like the swirling blades of grass
Grass not green but silver shining, all moonlight reflecting

Gods with silver hair and silver eyes danced in shifty iridescence
Voices sang clear and wandered wistfully through misty hills and hollowed places
Oh they delicately weave the lines of notes around my ear
under over between and in, I wish I could hear those notes again
but alas their time is passed-- the daytime took the nightly hymn

There are few who remember things as I have done, but waning pasts are of worth to none.
Oh the night was never meant to end
and it is left the earth but for what I have kept for mine, things broken never truly mend.
These silver threads for weaving time and fate together again
a mournful burden, but I cannot abandon them
for the tapestry of time is my from the gods of ancient past
As long as my fingers can touch the strings, my mind will see
what I have preserved in memory

the tapestry, though, will live before I die
All fates will cease to meet as edges cut
and gods will from sky return
to chase away sun in blue and silver flashing eye

And so I hurry to finish this task over which I mourn
so in silver laurel, I will be adorned."
I plan to add either one or two more parts later on
Blade Maiden Sep 2018
The wolves are hungry tonight
and so is she
her heart does know no fright
with her pack she longs to be

Under the bloodmoon
see her limbs grow
her feral body is to swoon
turning wolf into lady from head to toe

Her brothers and sisters sharp teethed
running with the winds of winter
in this cold and star-bright night they will feast
blood smearings in the snow look just like cinder

Hear her song howling through the air
all ice melts underneath her fiery feet
as they catch and bite and tear
lucky ones see her eyes before their demise they meet

'Tis the night of the hunt
benighted men will not run
shouting "Begone! Animal! ****!"
happily she devours them, flayed bodies in the morning sun

She's always lurking, lusting for your smell
Dripping wet her mouth with the juice of life
no one lived for the story to tell
of the wolf woman, dark wood's feral wife
Megan Parson Aug 2018
Well, she looks like a witch,
Her pointed nose does twitch.
As she frowns upon the grocery list,
Then scrunches in a timely twist.

Bidding her straw broom,
Which she doth groom.
Hovers away into the gloom,
Over a pond she doth loom.

To frogs, rats, snakes and slime,
Quoth she, "All in good time!!"
Soon they'll be no room,
For the impending doom.

Her cauldron happily hissing,
As she adds to the seething,
Her black cat begins meowing,
After the rats, he begins running.

Slowly cooling the putrid portion,
She applies the lovely lotion.
The moles, warts and silver hair,
Disappear into thin air.

Her velvet apparel now lace,
Not a blemish does one trace.
Fondling her silky Siamese,
She heads home with ease.

To the little candy castle,
Awaiting Hansel and Gretel.
*Grand Witch, named after a favourite movie : Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters.

           What does beauty mean to you?
We drove past it every Thursday;
blank, bleach white walls.
Clean, block rectangular.

There was a garage
and sometimes a black car
in the driveway.

It stood out crowded by cluttered
town houses smothered in ivy,
with long grass, red brick or pebble-dashed.

Glass on the street and supermarket
bags on the path, traffic,
conventionality, routine, and teletext.

But his house stood out.
The closest vision of showbiz style
I could see with all I knew being

he grew up near here,
like me, and that must be it,
the very house where

he would live if still in this city.
Creating a myth to myself
that he was allusive but he was inside.

I’d wind down the car window
listening out for the sound of
his songs in the air,

or watch to see if anybody
opened the door, lights of cameras
in the seconds we pass the junction.

Of course, never saw him
on the Thursdays our car passed by
but knew he was very busy.
Next page