As he lay waste her bed , her
Body, body-bed, bed-body
As he lay waste her cushions and
a saree unfurled
As he lay waste in a haste
To suck the marrow out of her
Lay waste her blankets,
And entered the bed which
Wasn’t one of Matrimony
But a bed raised in pursuit of mammon
To sort things , the easy way out
He entered a bed and she too ,
Was entered
Body-bed , bed-body,
As voices cooed and quivered
As flesh writhed and squirmed
Tamed flesh

As pleasure heaved itself
And guilt oozed out
Somewhere, unwary children shouted
Finally, oh finally , passions routed
And people fled , a temptress left
In the temptress’ lair
And though the bed still lay waste
The pillows had a lot to boast,
A reward for the magnanimous host
Young tongues savoured dead flesh
On the largesse of a bed lain waste
In a temple of flesh.

I consider myself fortunate, that I discovered absurdism at eighteen. It seems to me, one of those things, discovered in old age when you wish then, you could go back and do all differently. I don't have that, I am free to live the absurd life, maybe I will feel I should have lived otherwise, when I am old. But absurdism makes sense, for right now. I've tried religion, I was scapegoating, putting my problems onto a deity rather than taking responsibility. I suppose, I must live. And we will see.

The tens of thousands of headstones were covered in flowers. Trees that were about triple the height of them circled around them forming a Stonehenge and green forest of those passed. Daughters and sons sat behind the decorated stones and over the flat marks that were simply map points where they, their parents, would live for eternity. The fresher visitors even needed time to navigate, the ones used to it know where to go. Many come. It's justifiable to to think that one of them could meet a friend that day in the same situation. Maybe they've been there a few more years or maybe this is their first Mother's Day on the grass, but friends just the same.

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

wrath

controls me, contorts my mind into ugly destructive manipulative juxtapositions of melancholy and through the depths of it I often wonder ~

which foolish gardener planted this seed of angst that branched into the monstrous reflection at which I sometimes glance when I come across a mirror

I don't want to believe anything truly dies. The things we love, the people we love...we carry them with us regardless of how they wither  away and leave us. Seasons pass and the petals on flowers shrivel up, the colors aren't as bright as they once were but I've thought in this state, flowers tell the most.

I have two flowers that I keep in a glass jar next to my bed. While their states of these two flowers may them alike, the stories they tell are different. The first was given to me by a boy I swear I wanted to love. I'm wondering if I'll ever reach a moment where the timing is "right." I hadn't seen him in more than a year and in a way, this was us meeting for the first time again. I'm easily pleased and this single flower lit my face up the same way a whole bouquet would. Holding on to this single flower from months ago may seem strange but to me, it represents the warmth and comfort a single person can provide you with. The reality is things don't always turn out the way you wish for them for them too...but I was thankful to have crossed paths with you. I have no problem taking a different turn on my journey if it means meeting you at the end of the road. The light you bring to my being will always shine.

There were bundles of roses placed on my grandfather's casket the day of his burial. I remember this day vividly and despite the daggers I feel in my chest when I think about it, I want to remember it forever. I've been able to come to terms with the death of my grandfather since March but the thing with grief is one moment it feels light like a feather and the next you feel yourself being suffocated by the weight of it. This single rose represents my sadness, my shaky knees and sweaty palms that day, the tears that have rolled down my face over again, and most of all, the last time I saw his face and held his hand. Holding the flower brings me back to that day. I still feel the pain so intensely but I am now able to smile, too. It's hard when the ones we love leave us. It doesn't feel fair but I'm realizing their presence will always linger. They're here and there with us, we just don't realize it.  Being without the physical presence hurts but a spiritual presence can help our grief to feel a little less heavy.

To you,  withered flowers may seem like something you'd throw in the trash and a thing to let go of but I hold on to them for the stories they tell, the emotions they keep within them. Life is full of metaphors and dying flowers are another one of those. I am reminded of the ways in which things and people don't actually die. They live on within us and the universe. Planting another flower may bring some joy to my life but the thorns of  the flower that came before will still hurt me fro time to time. That's the beauty of life and its highs and lows, there will be thorns to cause hurt but there will be new beginnings that will bloom.
It all lives on with those withered flowers that lay in a glass jar by my bed side. I am unable to let go of some things and holding on to them assures me they will not die.