She left for New York City
I told her
"Don't miss me too much."
Silence grew.
I reassured,
"We share the same sky"
She told me I was poetic


                                         «c.h.b»

It wasn't real.
The love you traced upon my lips...
Was filled with venomous lies.

- Rayvn St. Claire

He pledged to woefully accept
The broken lullabies
That cradled his stone heart and
Locked itself deep within his soul.

The vow he heat pressed straight into his mind
Had left a scar wounding the very depths of his madness.
He swore to the heavens to ignore
Such sensitivities for the sake of another light.

Yet, his senses scream for some sort of release.
Caresses.
Essences.
Savoring.
Listening.
Visualizations.­

The desperation grew immensely like that of a saint
Who hath willing succumbed to ideals of sinning
And nightly creatures pieced his demons back together.
As they added weight to his already blood stained wasteland

I begin to wonder...
Who is he now?
I am merely the vessel of what use to be.
Unless, of course that man...
Is the one I see in the mirror.

Nothing but a silent reminiscence of what was...
Human.

- Rayvn St. Claire

The ghosts come back to haunt her,
Their shadows lurking over the ancient escritoire,
Quill in hand, paper a blank canvas,
Wondering if the poets of the past would praise her
Or look on her in scorn,
Will her own words be a wordsmith's dream?
Will she live a travesty and be idolized in death?
She buzzes with unease,
Feeling the fierce grip of inspiration overcome her,
Succumbing her to its essence before it vanishes,
And in her isolation, the words dance,
Sometimes in harmony, sometimes in battle.

Word-weavers we are carefully choosing
how to entwine our visions in moment.

We curve the textured linen page
with phases that in-hanse a readers mind.  

We create loops of poetic jargon
that dances to inspire a readers eye.

And when our cloth of vellum is done,
we present our gift to all who gather
in our tapestry of words.

My friend of ink has become static...
her words have faded.. still moving
but no words will now feel emotions.
She has moved on to a place more
than any spoken word...

I will read all that was before, we argued
more than a married couple, but were
friends of poetic verse...
She was taken, before her last verses were inked
on the white, the collection on verse.

I will miss my friend of verse, she was the opposite
of my ink, the contradiction of my words...
I cried when I learnt her words were silent.
But in my thoughts she will always make my
poetry better, she was my friend of poetic verse.