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Windy torrents of water and thunders echo
against a silent brown house,
It's large grey doors open, shrill voices sing,
chandeliers burn...
more sounds are heard outside, like a wailing.
chandeliers burning the ceiling...
statue wax ivory figures melt, burning in their
passion, melting turned violet red they have become
hopeful, promises of painless joys, power over
wars, famine, disease and all things of darkness
are whispered in hushed "sincerity and truth"
but still vague and opaque.
Even now a banging of hail, leaves upon a pane
all the doors blow open now
and with a shriek all of wind in the drops are
scattered drenching, so even the mid morning rain
can still drip earth upon the clear white figures
revealing their true origin
rendered **** by what once made them.
Ken Pepiton Jun 17
Where some unmatchible ideas
are found
tying missed-match pairs
in knots
of complexities, easily

--Repairs of missed-matched socks
wear well on chill days when
darning's all we find
worth doing,

and nobody knows how any more.

Thread bare heels and toes

don't send the mender's dancing thimble
through loops and whirls
at fantasy ***** with

grand pianos and flutes and strings,

and angels in mismatched socks,
singing of somedays like
these, we imagine.

Still, we can.

Souls clad in well mended mismatches,
skate on grandma's wooden floor,
as we recall the deed,
and the equipment.

Grandkids are coming today,
why else would I wax floors and imagine
polishing them, with socks rescued
from uselessness after the other one
was carried off to sockland

through the dryer.
All dryers in America have portals to sockland.
And no one knows how to ****, but
we can redeem stray socks and and and

rescue the tradition of waxing wooden floors,
shining the souls of the trees with the souls of our feet,

trippin' with hippie granny, who married the wolf,
who uses the same portal to sockland for ****.

Just once, everybody should paste wax a wooden floor,
and polish it in mismatched socks, with
five, six and seven year old princesses, (some missing teeth)
none of whom ever skated on tree hearts before.

Or you can imagine. It meets the need for reminding,
common to us all, as time goes by.
Had a grand father's day. Such a fine idea for a holiday, from my POV.
nat Apr 11
i tried my best
but your tears drip like wax
on my t shirt
i know no matter what i do
you stay melancholy and molasses
i still let you cry
and ruin everything i own
i don't know why i don't just try to let you go
i'm the happiest person alive when i'm with you
You are without excuse
-and so am I.
The pinpricks above my fertile veins
are finally starting to heal.
You wanted something of value
and I offered myself willingly.

You lent me your Icarus-wings
and I flew too high
-too far.
I believed that I could soar,
but your wings melted,
seared into my skin
and wax-dripping,
I fell through your fingers.

Your fingers,
so willing to touch, take
-they were never stretched,
never waiting, never there
And my arms, my chest
my throat, bared and battle scared.

I traced their lines
in the mirror this morning,
and felt the frightful push
of a final scream,
still trapped in my lungs.
My heart doesn’t beat
-it hammers in my chest,
surrounded by arteries
cold and void.
I never did stop falling.

And I fear the ocean,
fast approaching, vast and dark.
Will it shatter me like glass,
or swallow me with that final
scream clenched between my teeth?

I choke on it,
bite it back
-if I choose this one thing,
all else is lost.
If I break my silence
your face will be blurred
from my memory
-rendered red and screaming
as the day you emerged
into this world.

Sun-kissed red
you watched this myth unfold.
You beheld the work of your hands,
the final Icarus-fall,
the plunge toward a hungry ocean.

A cry of rage-fear-freedom
met your ear and birthed tears.
You mourned my death
at my rebirth.
And I found myself in the waves
freed at last,
my self-imposed slavery to gravity
at its end.

Envy blinded and deafened
by rage, you cannot know
the life I have found
when your grasp slipped
on the tether of my soul.
So, this tremendous fall marks the end of a series of poems called #sinceyouleft. I haven't put many of them up here, only the striking ones, and of course; this one - the final one.
It was originally called 'A Final Scream' but it seems to have chosen its own name, and Icarus suits it just fine. Hope you like it...
Chris Lazzaro Feb 28
Faces of plastic, covered in wax, greased with the oils of appeal.

Forever Frozen, rigid and cold, lasting winters of years.

Bearing a smile, shallow and hollow, to gain that other’s ear.

How often we are told, we must avoid, anything that causes us fear.
a tasteless empty word
like numbness of the fingers
like numbness of the tongue
a numbness of heart
and false plastic lungs
bland face
bland skin
bland stomach
and bland eyes
wax satisfaction
in a false candle pose
wax candle prose
by plain poet hands
I am a wax figurine poet
who writes
but bland
L Jan 3
Tonight i sat in the dark for a bit.
(A moment of silence if you will.)
Holding a taper candle, staring into its flame.

At first, for a bit, i was worried about candle wax dripping down and spilling over my hands and onto either my bedsheets or the carpet.
(Can hot candlewax start a fire?
Surely not.
And then i thought to myself,
"**** it."
If something happens ill catch it before it gets too bad. Ill feel the pain and it will remind me that i am alive.
That i am lucky.
That i can still feel things.

The candlewax did not spill or drip at all.
(Did you know they make candles like that??

Now, a bit disappointed, i thought,
"What a sediment"

I took the candle into my right hand.
Oh, so carefully,
I tilted the candle holding the flame over my right wrist.
One drop.
I flinched.

The pain stopped as soon as it came.

One for me.

I thought,

As i shifted the candle to my left hand,

"This is for you.
And all the pain you felt.
And that i didnt know about."

"This is my proof that i would have tried if i had known."

One for you.

I didnt even ******* know you very well.

We werent really even friends.

I dont know how to spell your name.

And still

Its too bad.

Its so sad.

Way too ******* sad.
Hi again, i am still alive, yes.
Julie Mullins Nov 2018
I am two
That can merge
Into one.
I can be as loud
Or as quiet as
You please.
I can also become
A mess you get tired
Of dealing with.

One thing I cannot do
Is speak for myself.
If I could,
I'd scream in disgust
Because of the horrors
Of this goopy, sticky
Yellow stuff that
Attaches itself to me
Every time I'm used.

I'd sue if I could!
But I'm just
A pair of
Brynn S Nov 2018
When the writer stopped
The clicks disappeared
Paper lay silent
Words melted into floor
Candle wax measured time
Each drop a new hour
Pens of neglect
The dagger of mighty men
It laid there
Dusted and calm
Nothing was left
There was nothing to right
“Right” is a play on the word “write”, as the direct focus is on a writer without any words left. Or is he to “right”his wrongs/ confess? Ponder this
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