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Odalys 6h
Once, I wore a costume stitched from someone else’s dream,
Threads of “should” and “must” wrapped tight around my seams.
Your voice wove cages round my spirit, soft but stern,
Insisting who I was, dictating how I’d learn.

You pressed your mold against me, shaping edges I had grown,
Told me love meant sacrifice—till I was flesh and bone
Carved to fit your vision, a sculpture not my own,
Smiling through the silence, pretending I’d not known.

But freedom grows in secret cracks, in whispers, hidden sparks,
In midnight thoughts that dare to blaze like lightning in the dark.
I broke your cage wide open, let my true wings unfurl—
I soared beyond your borders, reclaimed my vivid world.

Now I dance in sunlit streets with laughter in my chest,
I paint my days in colors you forbade me to possess.
I’m wild wind and open sky, my spirit unconfined—
Free as a bird and loving every moment of my life.
In place of shadows
sunspots and creases
an embankment the gray of day seizes
      nailed to peril as a savior
      pushes out all traces in its labor

Dust and smoke
--the heartless void
above the faded ring of hope
      say a sated prayer
      for your fellow wayfarer

I'll shield your body between
the rays and surface
I'll be your dark clouded step
     when your own feet fail to purchase
     into the ground they sink
I rest your head on my lap
and I promise everything is alright.
I caress your hair—
and it's myself who I deceive when I say
I will heal all that aches.

Playing peek-a-boo with your demons
I grant each and every desire.
Gasping lullabies to your ear,
do you rest when they sleep?

Playing hide and seek with your demons
they feed me all your whims.
Gasping bedtime stories to your ear
until you fall asleep
and they come with me.





[Another recurrence of the Devotion Rot habit—spilled as art.]
Poems telling about a love that lingers like a parasite, one that you welcome in the despair of loneliness. And one you feed in the need of being taken whole. Until nothing of you is left.
A soft lullaby you whisper while sweetly dying inside.
Celene Jun 28
8.
To what, for what, do I adhere?
To mend again a broken heart,
from shear to shear, shaving comfort off sheep-
collecting solace, to bring near.

But when my hands are cracked and my blood has seeped through,
who then,
can serve this purpose again?

When my blood has been spun into a thousand weaving threads,
may its embers provide for you
Warmth
in a tightly knit wrap.

But if you reach for me then, only,
when our peace has been dyed and my body has run cold-
please, do not panic.
I suppose, it must only be a catnap.
[Celene, Elphreia. 2025] https://elphreia.wordpress.com/
Viktoriia Jun 22
there are no greetings,
no farewells,
they cross the line
and leave unnoticed.
a solemn choir of silenced voices
repeating an outdated prayer.
there is no god to hear them out,
their hope is but an empty promise.
they find their rest
in nameless graves
and die the way they lived,
unnoticed.
You told me you were trying.
I told you about the time
I threw up so hard I started praying.
I saw stars in my hair
and thought they might be angels.
But it was just the acid.
Just the light.
Just me, alone again
in a bathroom that never loved me back.

You didn’t say anything,
and that said everything.
You texted “sorry”
like a magician pulling shame from his sleeve,
then disappeared
like a good lie.
I stopped asking you
to prove yourself after that.
I just started watching
to see if you ever would.

Maybe I made the whole thing up.
Maybe you did say something.
Maybe it was kind.
Maybe it was cruel.

Maybe the light flickered
because of bad wiring,
not heaven.
Maybe I was just sick.
Maybe you were just tired.
Maybe none of it meant anything.

But then why
do I still dream in that fluorescent color?
Why does the silence still have your shape?
I built a chapel from our last conversation.
Tried to make the ache holy.
But I was the only one kneeling.
And no one wants a martyr
who won’t shut up.

You said I was unwell.
I said, Amen.
You said I was always bleeding.
I said, Isn’t that what makes it a miracle?
Because if this isn’t a resurrection,
then I’ve been dying for nothing.

I gave you the ugliest parts-
even the bathroom prayers,
even the version of me
that asked God to make you gentler.
You said, “I didn’t ask for that.”
I said, “Exactly.”

You weren’t the end of the world.
You were just the earthquake
I canonized.
The tremor I learned to waltz with.
The reason my mouth still tastes like salt
and I call it grace.

So if God ever comes back,
I’ll know how to greet him:
on my knees,
already emptied.
a fluorescent ghost story. a poem about devotion that rots. built from bathroom light and second chances that never came.
Ian Starks Jun 1
As the gunfire ceased
And the battlefield began to weep
There he lies: frozen, asleep.

Battered and lifeless, his hands idle upward—
Through their veins marched a thousand men
They sang their spirits of fury and rage;
Now they rest, unwilling to sing again
As a thousand melodies and songs unheard
Flow for a final time
Upward, through the fingers—
Never to be sung,
Just once,
Only then.
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