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Winter Sparrow Sep 2020
And while he lives,
No matter the day, year, age.
No matter the time!

May his lips form a smile.
May his actions be cunning.
May his heart be filled with song.
And may his eyes be filled with determination.

But when that dreadful day arrives, should it ever.
When gods battle over a foolish man's godless soul.

Cast him to sea.

With a sword in hand, that for Valhalla.
A cross around my neck, that for heaven.
A Scarab on my heart, that for the Duat.
And two coins on his eyes, for the ferryman.

For if no god shall claim his soul,
Then Davy Jones will feast on his treasures!
Kit Scott Aug 2020
you are an unholy sort of beautiful
a rejection of divinity in every freckle and curve
in the dirt under your nails and the blood in your smile
your crooked nose and clever fingers screaming that you are godless

you dress yourself in an artless kind of humanity and revel in the shock it brings
hair and skin and dirt and all the warmth you can gather between two hands
you cup your heart in scarred palms like the very opposite of a benediction

you wear debauchery like a second skin
darling, you could **** god with a grin
this doesnt flow very well but i like it
Poetic T May 2020
If we were the mirror of our creation
                and not made in perfect silhouettes.

Then we aren't the creation of perfection,
                           as were flawed beyond our sell by date.

Then that which made us is imperfect in its design.
                  So not omnipotent,
  flawed in its own blueprint.

And so just another pebble in
A dry pond where wishes die.
Kivanc Dec 2019
One said a sentence:
"You won't get her heart back."
Knowing its truth made me
Godless and wretched.
I can't see behind or front
In my scattered life.
Help me, help me, help me!
Help me please Souleater.
What would I do
When things getting vicious?
Is giving up a choose?
Help me, help me, help me!
Help me please Souleater.
I never start and finish
I just watch dreamer.
Poetic T Jul 2019
Collapsing emotions
            corrode on my
          ****** perfection.

What was diminishing,
   now collecting in a cup
            of palmed hands collected.

I wanted to no that of your
                            that even
though tears fell,
you never turned

            those now memory to a wine
                         of hope...

Auschwitz was a million
                  tears choked,
but you never turned
a single tear
               to a vintage of peace.

We just choked on the tears,
     and we were a vineyard
                         of silence.

Each a grape that never reached

Instead we fell before we could become
              more that we were.
These tears are sour,
and the taste
                erodes every fallen tears morality.
Poetic T May 2019
I think the moulds were broken with humanity,
for if we were perfect
there wouldn't be so many faults
                                    in the mould.

But we learnt to smooth over the  cracks
                      and realise
                                            that we aren't perfect
but together we can mould a better future together.
Yvonne Nice Apr 2019
The Lady In Gold

She stood on my porch, the lady in gold
She stood there until I dared to open the door
She needed inside, but for what?

My lady in gold, she called towards me, but only pain could follow
My lady in gold, murmuring to herself, questioning her own philosophy
My lady in gold, wondering if I even cared enough about her to save her

And I, the heartless coward
And I, the spiritless shell of a man
And I, the miserable being killing the lady in gold

She held herself on a pedestal for the world to see
And when I doubted her, she fell from her self assumed grace
My lady in gold, now covered in soot from the earth below

Won't you join me once more?
Help me find her humanity.
Juho hankela Feb 2019
The dead and dying lie here in the thousands.

In rows they cry out to their supposed saviors in one last effort to believe. A choir of godless men howling toward the heavens, hoping to be heard.

The field upon which they cry has a foul stench to it. An all too familiar smell of blood, sweat and ignorance. In the distance a soldier crawls to find his foot and hugs it as if reunited with an old friend. Something resembling hope floats through the air, only to fly away and leave the poor soldier stranded in his solitude.

The real horror is what’s happening inside the minds of these petty little boys whom now realize they’ve been played. Inside their skulls they are experiencing the very last realization to hit a dying man before his downfall. The one that no living being has yet to escape from. Knowing that the clock has run its course and there is nothing behind the closed curtain. Nothing for the man who cannot convince himself that there is someone behind all this pain. Nothing for the poor soul who was never told there is an option. Nothing for us who want to believe but cannot.
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