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Cheyenne Apr 25
Vultures are the holiest creatures,
Tending with honor to the dead.
Bowed low to kiss the corpse,
With death covered wings and bare head.

They whisper to the frigid flesh,
Of words we could never hear, nor see.

“Your old name is not your own.
This dying earth; Not your king.
So forget the seeds that you have sown,
For I rename you “everything.”
Ellie Hoovs May 10
They laid me to sleep
in a coffin made of glass
lined with velvet apologies
thinking I'd dream of oceans
or forgiveness
or that one perfect nectarine
I'd dropped in 2003.
The ceiling shattered
while a symphony played
... wolves chasing Peter,
and me.
They chewed on my ankle -
wearing a voice that once prayed for me.
My nerves bloomed bruises.
My hands turned to questions,
tossing runes to the laughing sky
that held no answers.
My skin peeled,
old wall paper from worn bones,
regret curling
smoke above untended altars.
This is what it must mean
to be haunted by your own heartbeat,
to taste rust on your tongue,
with feet that remember
what a mind will not admit.
Love letters delivered in salt,
signed in static,
that simply read
"Persephone,
come home."
till the ****** of love
she sang

till the drapes
in tatters, wail
they shiver
threads,
to ribbons
as tears
frail in spring breeze
stiff
bony breath of winter
chills the soul
readies me for the wound

she could dance
belly and all
entrance my naked heart, my dizzy doldrums
how all I'd wanted
was her
in the midst
of my forest

mistake my love
for the stars
she did
for the myriad
she tossed her well
into my coin
and I drank her in
leagues deep
with one penny
for her mind
read her life
saw her perfection stem
in my interest
coffers full
no rust, pon my copper touch,
dividends of time, we had
and yet
by the hour, struck every eve,
the penny wast all I had
for, spat back, my penny went

a man can love a woman
but should his penny be worth her life
her love, her heavens, her crown,
men,
with wallets heavy as banks
will buy her drunk
ego, pride, unmerciful
to the brim
with lust
save one's penny, she'd be rich

though poor all her days, without you...
Who knew soul mates could be so cruel... and uninterested in love.
Zywa Mar 12
Omens are not real,

if you just look carefully –


from where you're looking.
Comic strip #89 - "Heer Bommel en De Hachelbouten" ("Sir Bumble and The Chow Craps", 1960, Marten Toonder)

Collection "**** & Lord"
bucketb0t Nov 2024
necromance inscape escape patience
albino Buckethead assault
nuts bucketbots' bolts
slug BucketheadLand vault
dark arhaic magic pick

Omen Wow
An ode/tribute to a bucketbot that tributes Buckethead by making music in his instrumental, non-existing style. The title of the poem is the title of my favorite song from his works, where the one-man band is called Plectromancer.
Chris Hutchison Nov 2021
Red chinstraps
Wet blood, slowly drying in the evening breeze
Folded into wells of clouded waves with vague concentric origin
Closer, a flattened helmet, orange ochre blazing
Sun sinking, stars chasing
Warrior's stratified locks wisp out to vanishing points
Freckles of sputtered bronze
Slowly becoming red
Slowly becoming an omen
Foreshadowing tears to be wept
Horses that lay silent
On the eastern Ural Steepe
The Sintashta people were an ancient and short lived group of skilled horsemen and metal workers on steepes of the eastern side of the Ural range. They existed circa 2000 BCE. They built large fortifications, and made large amounts of bronze weaponry, indicating a time of intense warfare.
I climbed up the third nearest hill
to watch the sun set,
on the day that you said
you love me..
Alone before sundown with time to spare.

I hoped to catch it amber and full,
on a hungry mid-cycle race all the way up there -
where exactly, I did not seem to care.
You disarmed me.
And on trial I were.

Alas my time wasn't worth it.
The sun hid behind thick layers of cloud,
the wind picked up and I could sense the rain coming.
It kissed me.
A bypassing train covered all other sound.

And to think I quite longed to hear this,
as if I didn't already know.
The forces of nature felt like an omen.
A warning,
against a tempting last straw.

Not sure how long I ended up sat there,
but Venus rose up to wish me goodnight.
If this is a test,
I’m determined to pass it.
An omen at half-light always means no.
Omen!
The  soul connection she felt with him was her first omen!
Most precious one but may be not the happiest.
Last winter, the green leaves  dried out.
East wind changed  it's fragrance.
Words of moment were altered.
Sign of Olives came  by that wind,
  was like the last one.
That time, she  forgot the quest of treasure,
Distance of thought was getting higher than ever.
But she thought the cascade of waiting is over.

Maktub!

It was  the time of realism for Another Omen,
No Time  for lamenting for the past thought she had.
Maktub!  New omen comes by changing the path of destiny, Not the destiny itself.
Persue of life meant to be followed anyway!

The Enchanted dream  that she has ,
was the  part of her melody of soul;
Only meant to become true.
After the long night,
At the moment of dawn,
Silence of heaven whispers the eternal truth of destiny!
Maktub!
Omen of Life - Inspired by the book "Alchemist"
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