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annh Aug 2019
Clothed, I, in robes,
Sanctified by charcoal deities;
Widowed of this world,
And as yet unborn;
Mourn the galloping pulse,
Of the passing night divine.
‘Learning to weep, learning to keep vigil, learning to wait for the dawn. Perhaps this is what it means to be human.‘
- Henri Nouwen

‘The robe of flesh wears thin.’
- John Buchan
K Balachandran Dec 2018
Winter wrench snuggles,
Moving fingers stoke fire;
****** vigil.
Darren Apr 2018
Trembling hands grasping bow
Flowers laid on ground below
Candles burnt and tears flow
Balloons in hand, we let them go

Glass remains amongst the tree
Bark stripped back, in memory
Stories shared for all to see
High emotion, running free

The sun descends in golden sky
I feel your presence walking by
Fading son caught my eye
Waving back, he said Good bye

By Darren Wall
Henry Koskoff Dec 2017
my fingers
are coated in a smooth
transparent film

of wax
from my own
mini candle

wax is
in fact
everywhere

in the crevasses
the skin
of my palms

scattered
about the thighs
of my pants

because i
have been childishly
crumbling it

unlike any of my surrounding
more mature
counterparts

because
i'm anxious
and sad

the now-desheviled stick
then brings me
to tears

when the lights
dim
and the flame

is passed around
like blessing
and hopes

in the
crisp wintery evening
in this church

the flame
only rises
in silence

the silence
is sharp
like a needle

it weaves
through the hearts
of the crowd

there are so many
and yet
it is silent

and the candle
is now
crying as well

milky fat tears
that tumble
and harden

in thin air
defying the laws
of physics

and everything
is dark and silent
except our flames

those flames
they only
rise
Pagan Paul Nov 2017
.
He lays in peaceful repose upon a sheet of satin,
she moves up to his body and curls into him,
placing her head upon his unmoving chest,
unconditional grief shown in mute sadness.
She recalls his voice filled with love and affection,
his familiar scent now gone, cold and musty,
as deaths sweet perfume hangs heavy
like a drape of choking intoxicant trance.
Moments stretch blandly into minutes of ache,
the minutes career into hours of silent vigil.
And with her head upon his unmoving chest
she exhales and whimpers her final sigh,
a last breath and she submissively slips away.
Hoping, perchance, once more to hear
her masters voice.



© Pagan Paul (25/11/17)
.
Carlos Oct 2017
They stay vigil, ever waiting the new design of sigils.
Kinda simple, keep their fingers pressed to pimples,
The pus a pit of petered parts,
Perceived by the reckoning of depleted hearts.
I rushed the doors at the sound of a great escape,
The process a repeat coordination of hurry up and wait.
Ever balking at the atrocities of cost,
Average Joes chasing dreams at the velocity of sloths.
How to be content with immense disparity?
Hands out faking quivers, shaking for some charity.
Forsaken someones somewhere surviving on a sliver,
Watching all the getters, I see myself a giver.
Stephen Gospage Oct 2017
In those days we kept a vigil
By his bed,
Holding his hand as he withered
On the vine, and we imagined his life
As something which, down the line, slithered
Inaudibly into the long grass, uncomplaining.
Outside, it was raining.
‘Just a few more days’, we said
‘Then there will be sunshine, no more rain.’
Was he in pain?

We never knew;
He lay still, quietly, there.
Perhaps we did not care?
But no, surely we did;
I’d like to think we did.

The ‘few more days’ turned to years,
Then decades, centuries,
And still he lay.
And still he lies
Today.
K Balachandran Aug 2017
In many different tongues, each one love's manifestations,
Some even to me unknown until the very moment,expressed,
I keep talking to you, my divine lover,out of my passion,intense
For you brimming within. Distraught a bit, feeling left in the lurch
On pouring rain and thunder storm; but you know how firm I am!
I stood rooted here, lost all sense of time, queer, ever  felt you near.
Then a sharp pain hit weakening my heart ,but couldn't deter me,
I am a cat of nine love lives, a species so stubborn, thrives in trust.
Dead of night it is , I  keep vigil, perking up ears, eyeing  skywards,
How do I know from, where would my only love, to me speak?
Diána Bósa May 2017
With you, I gladly
dance the sleepwalkers' waltz, yet
still, while on my way

to descend, picking
up the thread by following
Ariadne's line,

like vigilant ones,
I would rather desire to
be on the watch by your side.
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