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Such a lovely temple
At which to worship
Divine rituals
In sanctified flesh

Eloisa Apr 2020
She’s into ravens and dragons,
charms, prayers and spells.
Enchantment and mystery,
spirits and fantasy.
Phantom and magic,
dreams and stardust.
She’s into fascinating connections,
rituals and meditations.
She gives thanks to the sun,
the stars and the moon.
She trusts patience and love.
She adores understanding souls,
She’s into all these
and a thousand things more.
Ylzm Feb 2020
I pray when all is beyond my wits and my strength
I pray when the little I can buy exceeds all my money
I pray when fathers, friends and lovers failed me
I pray to entities I know not, even of imagination and belief

I pray knowingly that strangers, human or ethereal,
     are not obligated to me, even if I begged them
I pray knowingly that I have no wisdom to know
     what to ask, but only that seemingly good for now

I pray unknowingly if these powerful inhuman beings
     can read my mangled incoherent thoughts
I pray unknowingly if the formulated rituals of my ancients
     of magic, prostrations and sacrifices are effective

I 'll be thankful to gods, demons, angels and even men
     for a blessing is a blessing, and any help, is help indeed
I'll be careful not to be entrapped into constant gratitude
     but only to constantly build my wits, strength and money
Amaris Jul 2019
Skinny, papery, wrinkled, and pale
Running a rosary through her fingers
The air shimmers, balmy ocean waves that never cease
From the shaded marble step, I ask:
“Why do you suffer rituals out in the scorching sun?”
“My child, that’s how it’s always been done.”
Morrie W S Apr 2019
a liminal space,
a banshee who screams for the dead.

ashes to ashes
we walk the earth
in cigarettes,
in home and hearth.

my heart breaks:
feel the grass
beneath one's toes

magic where none
dares to go
Poetress2 Apr 2019
They never want anything from her,
until they come to her door;
And when they leave, her tender heart bleeds,
for there's nothing they want, once more.
Even though she is young, she remembers,
the shame and guilt they have brought;
She blames herself for their mistakes,
and she wishes that she were not.
Each night since she can remember,
their nightly ritual's go on;
They climb in bed beside her,
she wonders what she's done wrong.
With roaming hands, they touch her,
in places that make her feel weak;
She utters not a single word,
she can't find the words to speak.
They continue to touch this child,
she endures this in heartache and pain;
"Adult Games," they call their playtime;
as the child lies there in shame.
And when at last they're finished,
they leave her alone in the night;
She doesn't know what just happened,
she just ***** her thumb as she cries.
nic carwile May 2018
My teeth slice into the warm chocolate
My guilty midnight pleasure
Only but a luxury nowadays
Red liquor pours from the hollow heart of the chocolate

Burning my tongue at first,
But settling to a light sting and a warm
Tingly sensation
I nervously fidget with my hands

As the soft chocolate dissolves in my mouth
To be forgotten eventually
Even if the trace of it
Remains forever

My eyes squint and my eyebrows tilt.
Should I take another one?
Perhaps the question is not should I,
But when will I.

Whether tonight or another night
I am addicted to the pop and burn
The liquor is red like blood
Chocolate soft like skin
And that alcohol seeping down my throat,
Burns like a cut
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