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fray narte Oct 2019
i wish i’d bled enough;
my wrists — sore from scratching,
from trying to crawl
out of this treacherous skin
my lungs — dry from screaming.
my lips — chapped from chanting prayers;

one for each gravestone in my brain —

different dates
for a single name.

and i wish i’d bled enough —
died an enough number
to never die again,

but my wrists, they still have spaces for my wounds
and my mind, it still has spaces for my tombs

and tonight, i will hold funerals
for the parts of me that bled to death,
for the parts of me that in the caskets lie
and for those that still
are yet to die.
Sharon Talbot Sep 2018
Mourning

Mourning is an eerie thing,
Not always tied to death.
It may celebrate or sing,
May widen eyes or lighten breath,
May bring unexpected things.

Sometimes it is a wayward thief,
That steals among the tombs;
It can alter feelings, and twist beliefs,
Searching for less bitter rooms,
Yet it brings a strange relief.

The heart may not know it,
Nor the mind accept it,
But it may be for the best.
As it guides the sorrowful away from grief,
To a long and healing rest.
Re-reading this, I was reminded of some of the riddles in JRR Tolkien'ts "The Hobbit". I'm fairly sure these were based on the word-play of either Anglo-Saxon speech or Middle English, that Tolkien knew so well. Perhaps I worked some of this in unknowingly?
Bina Awan May 2016
May be tombs are not

As much a sign of glory

As we think them to be

May be its just a way of soil

Of returning the sufferings

That this world

Puts upon the soul

May be that's what they are

A heap of suffering.

21.4.2016
Kelly Weaver Apr 2016
The fog creeps
Quietly over each
Tomb
The clouds covered
Our moon
Tonight, we are
Different
Wet leaves stick
To our skin, we dance
Softly over the
Dead
Jagged teeth
Bring the untimely
Demise
Of a child
We have become
Different
Knots on knots of
Rope
Hang from each
Rotting branch
New victims bring
A gift each night
You will never find
Someone that cares
For you more than
I do.
Pride Ed Feb 2015
In marble, like moon; encased and cold,
I linger where you sleep. Long shed of decadent
purulence, your pale caress holds me still,
and I dream of your bones atop my
bones; our veins dying of thirst; the
worms making love to our oblivious corpses.

In amour, like rose; blackened in rust,
I shiver where we kiss.

Our lust becomes the dirt; our soiled souls moan.
We’ve become immortal inside the wood-rot.
Dark Valentine's Day prompt on allpoetry! ^_^
Eva Fox Sep 2014
Oblique sunlight
Drapes across the tombs of our forefathers,
Diffusing brilliant light
Through fragile petals that grow among the stone.
Each soft blossom casts delicate shadows
from its veins' array
And gathers light against these
In translucent shocks of color:
A momentary burst
Of gentle, piercing glory
Before falling
Like an indigo ash
Back to the dark womb
Of incessant life.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Can I show you how beautiful you are? Can I take out the old photo albums and push my index finger into the faces, the places, and seas? I want to peel back the plastic and remove the square photographs from their sticky setting. I'm alluding to ideas that exist more formidably on the internet- there are no paper photographs, no sticky settings, there aren't even faces in the numbers; it's only ever been you or me.

Some of my things are crooked. The strings don't work, the wires are twisted and make the sounds all come out funny. There's a strange buzzing everywhere, it's like Mickey's gray cloud, a cloud Koopa throwing spiked shells from Park Avenue beach to Montrose street. Everything is quiet, consuming, unassuming and still recalcitrant. I'm showing nothing to nobody. Coaxing storm systems and netting foul play and ***** tricks, with my pants around my ankles or my fly unzipped.

I'm stinking of this stuff. These sudorific crevices on the insides of my thighs. I'm more or less always pacing. Rocking. Rolling. Small room I'm living room, cadavers I stuff my skinny fingers inside of- cold, wet hollow places I'm seeking skin covered gods in. I'm craving tastes and flavors. I'm looking at these pictures of me, of my face and the clothes I wore, the people that knew me. Where have I disappeared to? Every place that I went, every condition of my humanness has gone. Five minutes past my certainty, squirting hot molten magma from my ****, my lips, and my fingertips. Hysterical thoughts and homily. I want just a hello. I want just a hello.

— The End —