There is a beauty
The colours change and leaves fall
Beautiful autumn

Trees and plant of green
The leaves turn orange and brown
And wilting flowers

There is a beauty
Only seen in autumn wind
And beauty in death

Haikus from my journal. There is a beauty that all seasons have. Autumn's beauty is in the colours of death

A woman stands strong and sensuous and proud
Her mind a fractured mirror cloaked in fog
Shard by shard
The bayonet finds her way, following the sweet scent of the bloody rose
Wielding her Scarborough Fair
The sass of Parsley
The wisdoms of Sage
The touch of Rosemary
The passage of Thyme

The woman
Born of the dark side of the moon
With powers untold
Able to twist and bend the spindles of shadows and time
Lips full and glazed with cardinal sin
Slick locks of ebony
A perfumed 500 year blur
With the night's lunar charm that twinkles in her eye
And butterflies that swoon for their Madama
The blood child born of the union of the sun and moon
The black sheep of the dark arts
Is one with the most beloved of Umbran treasures
Is the sweetest cherry with a long-forgotten radiant smile,
A harsh destiny
Who looks to the left side of the moon for the upcoming chaos.

Based on one of my favorite games, Bayonetta. This is a poem I wrote in my journal today also!
Zan Balmore Jul 10

My great
My great absent
lead, find me on my own
lip kissing ma-diaspora

her grass
face first burrow
back before the living

Know well the worst of myself
Your words are worthless

Know well the worst
of the common dark spell

for hand
cast for company
in tracing pages, ancient,

bp pipp Jun 27

Through the onyx forest, I hike
beside families of festering trees, I study
the sable sky, not a star in sight, they're
cloaking from the eerie environment.
The trees, bald from their autumn chemo.
These atrocious, apricot eyes hide on
these cancerous trees.
His beige-brown body cloaked by
the chestnut-chocolate bark. Muncher of mice, he hides, halted....

finding food

Ed Phillips Jun 26

Shadows of night fall in black slabs of indigo
air is icy and cold
the evening once young,  so pock marked and fragile,
now has grown weary and cold
the gas lamps they flicker so dim before sunrise
the wind blows in raggedy sighs.

God slit his wrists and he bled on the night sky;
dawn comes bloody and red
morning may come yet it won't be tomorrow
for us dear the world is dead
As we dance
           the last
                       two three
     ONE two three ONE two three
        ONE two three SHADows of NIGHT two three
                                                         THREE two

No color,
no warmth from the cold weather,
no charisma,
no freshness,
no love just loneliness,
no cover from the rain,
no drain for the tub,
no food in the cupboards,
no water to drink,
no end to the war,
no cooler for the heat,
no ice to make water colder,
no rivers flowing,
no flowers growing.

All is bleak,
all is dark and crawling.

Bleak that's all.

© By Amanda D Shelton

I had become more aware of my surroundings. With my obscured vision, I trembled up the mountainous stairs, to find comfort in my divan. The wind blundered and blasted the shutters allowing shivers to roar down my spine. I drew the covers restlessly over my body. Sleep would not grace me with its presence as I tossed and turned, thrashing about the bed. Why did it feel so unwelcoming, so foreign to my touch? My eyes drifted towards the window in search of comfort. Wind cried from the heavens as the maleficent feathered silhouette made himself known. My vision began to haze as my eyes settled into the crevices of my head. I couldn’t take it anymore, the fierce gaze of the raven was too much for my heart to bear. I clambered to my feet and made my way to the kitchen, stumbling through the halls as the wine took effect. As I clung to the kitchen door-frame, there it was; my means to an end. With an unholy determination, I grabbed the pearl gripped revolver that lay on the kitchen counter besides the key to the cabinet. How it got there, I haven’t the slightest idea. I was inhibited within an ineludibly eternal oblivion.
My mind filled with hatred towards the ruffled being as my sweaty palms grasped the bronze handle that I flung open with the desire to end this misery bestowed within my soul. I had of kill it for this misery to end, I was compelled to end its life. The raven vanished as if knowing my pursuit.
This was it. Barefoot I ran, though my legs were long past exhaustion, I kept running. Trepidation had driven all other thoughts from my mind, leaving the only instinctive urge to abscond. And so I ran.

This one, signed as myself and not my pen name, is a new step for me, I've never really put myself into my work, but this one is all me. Thus, it is called:


Life moves on
and things become too real.
A wife. Kids. Career.
It’s too much, I want to run away.

Everything has changed with
my position in the world.
I’ve never fit in
Always the freak who knows no limits,
the one who sits alone and minds his own.

Never understood, never accepted.
Now a husband, a dad, still the same.
Always covering up myself; hiding
behind wit and cruelty.

A shield to disappear into,
Afraid to be me; to send up alone.
I used to know who I was but
now I’m not so sure.

It seems I have my life sorted out,
but am I really happy?

A question I always find myself asking
but can never answer.
I don’t think anyone knows the meaning of happiness,
or if it really exists.

Tonight I found myself holding her close,
and as I rested my head on her chest,
I quietly try not to cry.

It’s hard sometimes to keep it all in,
to hold strong so as not to lose myself,
it’s why I write as I do.

An outlet through a pen is all I have,
only the page wont judge,
won’t declare me a freak,
won’t know that something is wrong with me.

The thoughts I have,
my inability to empathize with other’s pain and loss.
It makes me wonder if I’m right for this world.

I’ve been to two funerals,
one I barely knew, the other I held dear.
And lost a grandfather who meant everything,
yet I never shed a tear.

I used to think that it was because I am strong,
but now maybe that isn’t so.

Who am I really?
I think I need to know.

With locks the color of a raven she kneels,
To place before me a life lost.

For this is my realm
where I hold true,
to the life devoid of light.

And she is but one of many,
a servant like the rest.
Now she kneels where few have knelt before.

She lifts her head to meet my gaze,
and though it was in defiance, I cannot help but falter.

The loss in her eyes is that of the others,
yet into my soul her gaze has burrowed.

One has long since been lost to reside in this place,
some more so than others.

And though I know her name not,
nor her story have I heard,

I cannot look away as a single tear falls
and lands upon the life lost,

To land upon that Ebony Rose.

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