When a poem comes to you,
do not think it will stay with you.

sent forth on a path of destruction,
the prince of war is parading  
through orange tides of
burning torches—
the funeral rites of
the dead king.

the engine of entropy spits out little
agents of chaos like bees from a hive.

they will sow
in time for the harvest
and when the sun rises to adorn
their naked, furry bodies
with golden dew,
they will shiver
in the remnants
of every dead star
before this one ends again.

a banshee from the ages
arrives as a missile of
determined suffering
set to detonate in close
proximity to the loose reins
of my forgotten destiny.

she wears a crown of roses
and embraces me with
her thorns
in the realm of Nature’s
loveless fawn—
a birthed, forgotten creature
gilded in silver linings
only to melt at
the feet of
God’s love.

I have cried rivers of tears
for people that have left
and all it does is drown
the land in a flood
of never memories
that keep me  
isolated in stagnancy.

the wet magic in my
blood is vaporizing from
my fingertips now,
the crackle of split
lightning spins through
my skyless eyes.

abbreviated life spans
chunked into pieces
of lives I never wanted to
live, yet helped form
me.

I see violence in the periphery—
muted and out of
focus.

oil-spitting broken android
smashing through houses
looking for his heart
before powering
down.

“I am clipped,”
she whispers.

“my wings don't lift me
anymore.

I am a trophy in a
cage.

I am atrophy in a
cage.

singing about the world
beyond these bars.

set me free—
I see the
window!

my flight feathers
will grow back
and I will leave you—
yes,
but I might return
and sing
to you about
that world beyond
the window.

I am not yours
to keep—
set me free!”

she commanded my heart,
so I did—

I set her free.

and she flew away
into the world
and left me
with a parting gift—

an open window
and a devastating song of silence
that echoes in my ribcage forever.

“Just a simple little ditty, not too long and not so witty, but a feel-good sweet refrain that I’m proud of all the same.” — Poet


I feel alright when I write
doesn’t matter day or night
Writing helps me clear my head
helps me sort all things I dread
Writer’s block tends to confuse
good to have a helpful muse

There’s not a more exciting caper
connecting mind and pen to paper

I feel alright when I write!

~~*~

“Don’t knock it till you try it, writing’s free (don’t have to buy it), pen and paper (and a muse) is all you need — it’s guaranteed!” — Poet



© 2025 Mark Toney

That last one burned a hole in me
My cynic was running wild and free
Together we ranted about who is smart
We talked at length, what is art
I told him things I’ve seen, what makes me smile
He said he’d get back to me in a while

Are you the catalyst?
Are you my muse?
My master?
My Shaman?
My guide?

Or some drifter who sparked something
Dead in me...
Too dormant to pry from
The floorboards by myself

I would've never seen
What I could be if you
Didn't light the match
You were,
Are,
Will be,
my hidden passion
Inspired if you only did
what I was asking

We could somehow,
Still be
Now the tables turned
If only you could deal with me
You were my peer
Yet my professor
Froze any lessons Into lectures
Pressure is setting in

Hope you know I'll always be
Your biggest fan
Flat characters in a bad romance

I coulda wrote
with half my wit tied
behind my back
Doesn't make this any less real
The ritual thins the veil
Please tell me
you can feel ...
This
Whatever IT even is
Are you my mystic ?
Or my mediator ?
My handler ?
Or myself ?
Displayed on a face

I've hallucinated
Just to keep me company
Yet you reply
And react
as if you were made to

Maybe your the simulation
Or were tailor made to
make me whole
I dunno...