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A husk forever blazing black
Apathetic inferno made
Glittering in the moonlight
The band of thieves steal away.

In her roughened burlap sack
She carried the burning shade
Cradled among the glinting gold
Yet longing for the blade.

A creature full of foul designs
Denizens of the glade
A forest of young lovers' kisses
Renders her afraid.

She'd been here once before, in fumes,
Breathed the sunlight of the day,
and her heart had gasped
and touched a spark
which set it all aflame.

She was sharp, the thief,
and saw the lovely fae
Who stole her life and sought her soul
And burned her just the same.

When she returned, all was calm
Lady long absconded
With her love to the fae so cruelly bonded
Her loss a bitter balm.

The thief and the fairy met one night
And found solace in another
And since it burned so midnight bright
Both women lost a lover.
Naeem Apr 22
Growing up we all heard the same stories
There was a good guy and a bad guy
And everyone had their set roles to play
That's how we were raised
The ideals we were set to follow
But as we got older
And the stories got bolder
The good guy turned bad
And the bad guy turned worse
Our stories no longer had hope
A happy ending to look forward to
Everything that used to make sense
Seemed like an illusion now
The once upon a times
Became an after thought
Early bed times
Turned conversation in the dark
And the fairy tales we grew up on
Became a memory not really lived
don't talk,just listen
pick their story's glisten
grasp how not to fail
from their perishing folktale
pay heed to their lamentation
to put yourself on flawless direction
learn about hell and misery
as this is the map for victory
Carlo C Gomez Mar 12
Sad reflections from
donated dreams.
fallen embers.
Like a high UV index
they burn right into
your skin.
your thoughts with a bit of compromise.

Close your eyes
to the possibility
has made itself at home.
You'll feel it, feel it
right to the bone.
But you crossed that bridge
long ago.
In the time of
tranquil misgivings.
You gave consent to
sin by offering up
your sons and daughters.
Drowning them
in the shallow end of dissipated water.

Sing hymns
all you like.
is not for sale.
And the angel light
that hits the wall
is not in the shape of Mary.
Evil always figures into
these things.
Don't you know? Heat rises. Blood falls.

So burn your prayers
on a stick. Roast them
in the campfire. You'll never turn
to God until you lie
dying. Broken and heaving.
Asking for forgiveness.
Which a man of cloth
will grant.
Such a charmed life to leave.

Only it's a cheat.
A spoonful
of circumvention.
Making you feel
warm and clever
as you bleed out. Regrettably,
your vacuous heart
sailed off on the Greta Garbo
and mortgaged
your future for such marquee.
Banking on the
here and now.
From this there can be no redemption.
muteD Apr 2
I’m feeling like giving up.
As I sit and gaze into nothin’
I hear my heart thumpin
through the music that’s crumpin
in my ears.
and I’m wishin
for it to all slow down
and stop.
I’m wishing I could
replace my blood with molasses
and then slit my wrist and watch.
Watch as the life drains from my eyes.
Would you believe me if I told you, that wasn’t a lie?
Not an exaggeration
or a tale?
Of course you wouldn’t
because you aren’t me
you don’t have my mind
or the thoughts that creep in.
and with a mouth
that is permanently disconnected
from my mind,
how will I ever get you
to understand
why I am the way I am?
written: 4/1/20
solfang Mar 30
our heartbeats
can never be in sync;
for I know mine
will always be beating
faster than yours
I think that love is an old wives’ tale,
Whispered low to suckling babes
Beneath the glows of grapefruit firelight.

I think old women sick of pails
And endless spools and groaning crates
Sat by the sinking smoke of twilight

And made it up, like ancient hymn-songs,
To ease the creaking of their hips
And the dusty clink of emptiness.

I think they spun it from their wool-threads,
From the creases of their lips,
From the shadows and their heaviness.

I think their youngest daughters listened,
Then wove this teeth-and-murmur myth
Into the folds of cracking tapestries

I think they painted, whistled, christened
This hallowed folklore into gifts
And all the while grew its majesty.

I think these tales turned to scripture
And the scripture into ballads
And the ballads into diction

And now all these many winters
Since that single haggard crone-wife
First dreamt up this wind-swept fiction,

And that first pink-****** maiden
Spun beside these tales and heard them
And repeated them anew -

And now, we murmur these same fables
To our teething, blushing children
And believe them to be true.
Instead of stepping forward.
Her steps retreated.
Fading away with darkened clouds.
Without answering ferral howls.
A griffon fights leviathan upon my left forearm
As phoenix rises underneath, regal rebirth from the war

Clouds adorn my bicep
Created as a place to play
For curious birds drawn out of bones;
Symbols of life's pain

A charm is etched into my chest
To ward away the wickedness,
That surrounds me on my path

And cheaply done tribal
on my right shoulder,
A remnant to teenage aftermath

A mural of light and dark is juxtaposed
From left to right upon my back
Serves me as a guiding light
And reminds me of my proper track

Art is created of many forms
And each of their beauties is akin
I am living cautionary tale
And a gorgeous canvas made of skin
Every scar tells a story, every tattoo is a piece, and we are all artwork.  Even if tattoos aren't your style, keep creating art of all kinds.  And take a minute to think about what each person's art means to them.  Always support your brethren artists.
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