Alexa 1d

you
are the black plague
and i
have caught
your disease

but this black plague
is lovely and wonderful
because this black plague
is attraction
towards you.

diagnosis: black death of love
Mono 6d

Would you love me?

If I was a storm so strong my name would be carved into history

Would you love me?

If I was fire that burned your home as I was called a calamity

Would you love me?

If I was a plague so deadly that could endanger and kill all of humanity


“Would you love me?” She asked bearing the final question.


“No” He replied. “I’ll love you even more”

An old poem...

Closing rifts in hatred can kill a monarchy,
But morale grows to kill it anyhow, you see...

A year can pass like light through glass,
But still you’ll never see...

Fighting scrapes,
Ignoring scars,
Can only make debris,
Of what will never be…

Listen close,
To how they speak,
Of listless killing sprees,
Or whisper to the trees and croon,
Their sacrilegious plea…

Still you haunt these rigid spores,
Of flowered enemies,
But dawn’s wreath may only cometh,
When your heart concedes,
To crooked tales and bloodied gales,
Of life amongst the free…

O, Dear Soletta, have I failed you,
The King is dead,
Now, let us kill the Queen...

An errant knight pens prose for his departed wife, Soletta, during the Great Rising of 1381. Adapted for modern readers.

I’m not afraid of evil
that makes the demons thrive.

I’m not afraid of plagues
and diseases that will deprive.

I’m not afraid of death
or what happens when we leave behind our skin.

I’m afraid of people
because we created every sin.

I don’t have trust issues,
I’m just not foolish enough to ever let anyone in.

The Dybbuk Apr 17

I am sickly, weak and broken,
From all the words I leave unspoken.
I am plagued, hurt and deranged,
From the curses I leave unchanged.
I am full of expectations,
I have fully crafted plans.
I have names for operations,
I won't achieve with my own hands.
I walk through worlds and I'm displeased,
But it isn't these lands that are diseased.

orangesherbet Feb 14

Yes, you can go near "them"

and talk to "them"

and be nice to "them"

and, god forbid, treat "them" like they're human.

Surely, you aren't stupid enough to think,

that crazy is contagious

and that insanity is catching.

Well if you're not,

why are you acting as though they are plagued?

Why are you calling those people,

who are just like you and me,

"them" as if they're from another planet?

Wellbeing is an illness that plagues my mind
regardless of what others believe it to be.

~~ The echoing sound of shattering which you heard so softly in the distance was the sound of me trying to break myself. ~~
Stanley Wilkin Dec 2016

Wherever he went the visitor left a note
A small one, barely a centimetre long,
Beneath a glass or jug, on which he wrote
The same incomprehensible song.
Oh yes! It made no sense. Not a bit.
Which is why he left it

The town became used to his fleeting presence
A joke, a laugh, a drink, then gone
It didn’t matter that he made no sense
Or that his odour, also left behind, was so wrong.
It didn’t matter one little bit;
Which is why he did it.


He floated in with the sunshine and dust
Not by the door. They  quickly forgot what he looked like,
His name, if he possessed one; precise objects of his lust;
The tone of his voice; whether his build was heavy or light,
He had no substance or distinguishing features
In the usual manner of such invisible creatures.

He left only a memory, flaky as rust
The half-remembered shades of those with diminishing sight
The first kiss, a balloon that goes bust,
The unseen hand that turns out the light.
Like aging, he unravelled each mind, stitch by stitch,
An accident waiting to happen, disease, misfortune or glitch.

If he visits, struggle to recall something
When he’s gone. He will take part of you with him.
Changes will be rung, sans mind, soul, sans everything,
Disposed of through time, fate or whim.
He freely comes, unrecognised
Unnamed, unknown, unexorcised.

Vida Crow Nov 2016

You hold my hand
and sing ashes, ashes,

We run to the forest,
fingers burning.

(I blow mine out)

You sing we all fall down,
and the world is a pyre

Lydia Hirsch Oct 2016

A girl of thirteen or fourteen, sickly and pale,
carries water from the well. Her brother is
dying. He is six months old. The girl (whose
hair is red, looking boldly like fire in the afternoon
sun, and whose eyes are the grain and the rain
and the river) is aware that her days, too, may be
few. It is a secret she keeps from her mother:
the ache she feels with every movement, every
movement the lifting of the tremendous weight
that is her skeletal body; her fever; the poems
she has left out on her dresser so that a part of
her may remain with the world when she is
gone.

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