#michaelsolc
Once, I was a dreamer.
I would look into the dark sky above me,
and see an endless universe.
It was full of mystery,
millions of stories and marvels.
Now, I look into it and see nothing.
Tiny pinpoints of light staring back at me.
Wondering why I no longer ask for their stories.
Blinking, expectant.
And all I can do is stare back.
I have no answer for them.
Nothing that would not seem a lie.
This is the end for me.
The last of the starlight inside of me
has flickered and gone out.
I’m left now with only the vast emptiness.
No stories.
No marvels, or wonders.
Only the mystery.
Once, I was a dreamer.
I searched for the truth in the stars,
the buried treasure of forgotten skies
and the rolling, grassy hills they watched over,
in some faraway land where man had not yet tread.
I saw their secrets and held them tight behind my eyes,
as if they were my own.
Knowing they were not.
Knowing that they were no ones’ but the stars and the sky.
But never believing that one day they would be taken back,
taken away from me.
And now they have left me, the Keeper of nothing.
Perhaps it was my own doing
that drove away those sacred lands and starry nights.
Or perhaps I was selfish in thinking it was only I
that could look upon them as I did,
and see the wonders I saw.
I lay here now,
beneath them.
Blind.
When once, I was a dreamer.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
Quickly and quietly they come in the night,
slithering, sliding into your room,
under your covers and out of sight.
Soft, scaly skin cold to the touch,
whispering "dear, you mustn't scream much".
Long pointed fingers wrap 'round your head,
they've found you cozy in blankets,
and now wait to be fed.
Can you hear the scuttle of claws in the hall?
Coming to find you,
coming to maul?
Clicking claws and soft little hands that are cold to the touch,
they’re whispering, "fear, now isn't it such?"
Dark little voices in a dark little room,
so often a haven,
now laden with doom.
Eyes shining coldly in the blackness you see,
fangs dripping with hunger
as they shiver with glee.
Dozens all over, waiting their turn,
they've come for your tears,
for your dreading they yearn.
Quickly and quietly they come with delight,
but it's all just a dream
so sweetheart, goodnight.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC
In the black of night,
one winter long ago,
the bones spoke to me
from their perch upon
a tomb.
Creaking in the cold,
and shining brightly by
the light of the moon.
“Come and speak,”
they called, but the voice
was only an echo.
I stepped forward
in the crackling snow, and
the bones leaned forth.
“It’s grown cold, and
we are lonely,” they said.
“Who are you?”
“We are the Dead,”
they replied.
Silence stretched out
across the graveyard
and snow began to wander lazily
from the heavens.
It gathered on the bones,
who did not move.
They peered down to me,
empty sockets where eyes once sat,
then dried to dust.
“What need do the dead have of visitors?”
I asked.
The skull cocked to one side,
and the gathered snow slid
from its gleaming dome.
“The Dead need and want
all those things which have
long lost meaning to the Living.
We have as much right to company,
and twice the need.
The cold earth is also
dark, and silent.
It is there the Dead go mad.”
The snow tumbled down,
another layer upon another,
and neither of us stirred.
I watched a trickle of blood
flow from a socket of the skull,
sliding down to color its teeth
a dark crimson.
A single drop fell
from its mouth,
impacting upon the snow
at the foot of the tomb.
The dark red stain
spread across the snow
of the yard,
turning it to
a tundra of blood.
The gravestones stood high
above the bloodied freeze,
and high above them all
stood the tomb.
Sitting there,
the gleaming, bleeding,
grinning bones.
“It is there the Dead go mad,”
they repeated.
The insane screams of a thousand dead souls
pierced the silence of the night,
and the tombstones crumbled
into the snow.
The ground swelled
as if turned to a vengeful red sea,
and spat the bodies below to the surface.
A mass of bone, flesh
and dirt replaced the
snow around me.
The bones above gazed out
upon the carnage,
jaw agape.
Screaming.
Louder than ever,
unmuffled by the earth,
the bodies of the dead shrieked to the heavens.
The gray winter clouds above
turned to soot
and fell from the sky.
The full moon burst into view,
casting its cold glare
upon the horror.
The Dead writhed and shrieked,
bony fingers and heels digging
at the ground around them.
Rotting flesh fell from muscle,
muscle fell from bone.
From atop the tomb,
the bones turned back
to me, screaming
“IT IS THERE THE DEAD GO MAAAAAAD!”
The skeleton burst into dust
and rained down upon me.
And the screaming ceased.
Slowly, slowly,
the writhing bodies
grew still.
Their eyes,
cold and bright,
stared wide at the sky above.
My ears rang with their screams.
I shuddered.
The bodies recessed
back into the earth.
Soot rose back to the heavens
to cover their watchful eye.
Looking back to the tomb,
I saw the bones returned
to their perch.
But now they gazed upon me
with my own eyes.
“It is here,” they said.
And I could not look away.
“The Dead go mad,”
I answered.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
I cling to the rough,
warped edges
and **** in a breath
as I feel them tear
through my fingers.
The blood makes it slick,
easier to fall,
or easier to slide.
I shuffle my feet,
and I slide,
ever so delicately,
wind slapping my face,
but gently.
We slide here.
I came out here to see
something.
I don’t know what.
I could hear it humming
in the back of my mind,
and it sounded warm.
My blood is warm,
and the cuts sting,
more when I grab on
tighter.
I can feel some going right
down to the bone.
I wince when it scrapes,
but my teeth don’t crack,
so I can hold on
a little longer.
It’s quiet,
and I know there
should be voices.
There should be
many voices.
Shouting.
Screaming.
But there’s nothing.
Only the wind in my ears,
and the shuffle of my feet.
There’s no sound for when I bleed.
At least it’s bright out.
I just wish I could see
something.
Anything, so long as
it’s warm.
I could hear it,
like a promise,
in a dark room with
bare white walls
and rain coming in
through the cracks in
the window.
It’s gone now,
even the room
is gone.
And it’s so quiet.
It hurts being out here,
so I slide, ever so quietly.
No one will hear me,
not out here,
not if I slide.
The ground is close.
I could make it.
I could let go,
and still bleed,
but the pain would end.
I could let go,
and maybe then I’d
hear them.
The ground is close.
I could make it.
Maybe even
land on my feet.
I could let go,
and walk it off.
Walk,
but where?
Even the room
is gone,
and it’s so quiet,
no one to even
scream.
I came out here
to see.
To hear,
to feel
something.
I walked
here.
And now there’s only
the blood on my hands,
and the silence,
and I can’t feel the pain
anymore,
it’s too deep,
there’s only the blasted
silence,
and the bright light of day
that blinds my every move
as I try to climb and wish
I could jump,
and if I could only hear them,
hear them shout,
scream,
“Climb!” or
“Jump!”
I would do either in a heartbeat,
just to stop the blood.
Just to stop the pain I can’t even feel.
But everything is gone.
So I slide.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
Sun-dried moss
hangs in clumps
from the eaves trough.
Morning dew glittering
in the dawn.
The floorboards,
covered in peeling
gray-blue paint,
crackle and creak
beneath my bare feet.
My joints feel rusted,
and my eyes don’t see
as far as they did before.
Before all that happened
happened.
My hand on the doorframe
is alien to me.
But it moves when I ask,
so it will have to do.
I stagger through
the warm porch,
where a soft,
sweet-smelling breeze
drifts in through
torn metal screens
and cracks in the
rickety door.
I open it as quietly
as I can.
There is only me here,
but I like the quiet.
Three wooden steps
down to a gravel drive
that passes side to side
out front.
Bare feet,
too well-worn to
feel the stones,
tip-toe across
to the rough,
brown-green grass.
My feet are wet
now, and
when they find
the sand just beyond
the patch of grass,
it clings.
I scrunch up my toes,
digging, until I find
the cool, dry
layer below.
The lake is clear,
and the soft rustle
through the pine trees
along the shore
reminds me again of years
gone by.
Sticky fingers,
covered in sap,
pine needles sticking
between my toes,
and scrapes on my shins
that hurt back then,
but sing sweetly in my memory.
I sit on the little beach
between the trees,
crossing my legs,
and plunge my hands
beneath the sand.
Peace.
And what a joy,
to be here
and feel it
in the coarse sand,
the cool caress of morning breeze,
and the utter
silence of the still lake.
Have I come so far,
to wish for so little?
Have I lost something
along my way?
The anger has faded,
and in its place
sits a quiet resolve.
The games they play,
I’ve long since lost,
but finding myself here,
I wonder if I’ve not
come out ahead.
The water calls to me.
I may visit her soon,
once I’ve had my fill
of sand.
The wind grows bolder,
and the pines whistle.
A loon calls out,
somewhere unseen.
I wonder if today I’ll
climb that same tree
from so long ago.
Wonder if it has held
its form better than I,
and which may break
a limb first.
I smile,
because I know
it’s foolish,
and the beach is so
soft beneath me.
Warm and yielding.
But oh,
the sweet,
stinging memories.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 8:10 PM UTC
I remember you,
when the darkness comes.
The prettiest, blackest,
most bottomless eyes
I’ve ever seen.
The shy smile that tugged
at your lips,
and the tender kiss that followed
haunt me like ghosts that laugh
like breaking glass
while I sleep.
You closed your eyes when
I kissed your forehead.
Before I let myself say the words,
that was how I told you
I loved you.
When the darkness comes,
my hands still feel the warm
curves of your body,
your soft dark hair against
my neck,
and your head nestled against my shoulder.
The fire inside dimmed,
and in your arms a calm
took its place.
You squeezed tighter as I held you,
and I loved you more every time.
The words did not come easily,
but truly,
and when I whisper them to
all these empty places,
they echo like rain on the rooftops.
In the dark, I swear to you,
and pray for day.
Your smile was never easy to find,
you hide it well.
I never minded,
because I’ve been told the same.
And because I knew
that when I found it
I had earned the light in your eyes,
and the music of your laugh.
I was special then.
And so were we.
But lies burn more deeply
than the deepest love.
I was always yours.
You were never mine.
I left the day I knew
you would never stay.
I wanted to ask you to come with me.
I wanted you to ask me to take you.
The silent sadness in your eyes
and the weakness in your embrace
told me I was already gone.
I held you tighter that last night,
then watched you walk away.
You never looked back,
and that was when I finally
let myself cry.
The days are quiet now.
Trains pass by, and
you’re never on them.
The sun shines on,
and everyone here goes on
as if nothing ever happened.
They don’t know what I’ve lost.
I die in silence.
When I saw you last,
you were in his arms.
Your laugh made me smile,
even as I fought back the tears.
I watched him kiss you,
and saw the light in your eyes,
the ease of your smile.
I saw you in love.
And when your gaze
flickered to me,
I saw a stranger.
And I wonder now,
when the darkness comes,
when you looked into my eyes,
who did you see?
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 4:41 AM UTC
Under rolling clouds
of purest white
stretching over bright
blue skies,
my feet carry me
as if winged
through the lush
green hills of this world
you've shown me.
Your cries carry me
through the deepest
chasms,
and though
I grow weary,
I must carry on.
Time grows short,
fortunes pass unseen.
I yearn only
to gaze upon
your face
once more.
And yet I dread
the words
I know must come.
Past these demons
of darkest nightmares
and through this
dungeon of the
blackest heart.
Through all this hell,
I come to
my hollow reward.
An empty room,
bearing only an echo.
Your princess
is in another castle.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
I can feel
her absence,
like swallowing
a cold
knife.
The blade
slices slowly,
deeper
with each
heartbeat.
Tasting
sorrow
like copper.
A cold
steel shard
that rests
against
my heart.
But will it cut?
Can you still bleed?
Do you love?
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 1:52 AM UTC
Flames dance
over the bones
of an unfinished
sonnet,
now half-remembered
and strewn about
the ashes
of a love
huddled
in the cold.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
Somewhere
in the last
heart
that has
never
been broken,
lies the key
to all
that we have
lost.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
Dance upon
the broken shores
of Great Carcosa,
where Silence
plagues the
calloused ghosts
who wither,
whispering
along the wharf.
They dance
for Him,
our Yellow King,
whose misery
creeps
over brittle fields
and rotting crops
stinking in an
amber sun.
Boardwalks crumble
‘round rusted nails
hammered down
by the last to be
forgotten.
Here the
dying wolf
has sharper
teeth,
even as the
stinging wind
rips the fur
from its flesh.
Dance upon
their crackling
bones
in salted air
to the roar of
the mad
and the crashing
of the lost.
His Eye will
see
and You shall
hear
His song
upon Your
lips.
Jul 25, 2019
Jul 25, 2019 at 1:55 PM UTC
An angel
wrapped in gauze.
Lying still
on coarse,
unmoved sheets.
Soft,
tender skin
pulled tight
over blood
and bone
by taut stitches
pierced through
the wreckage.
My angel.
Surrounded
by colour,
bright flowers
that fill the room
with a sweet odour
as they die.
I tell myself
that I can't
smell her too.
The sun
streaming in
through the window
is too hot,
but she shivers.
Now and then.
Her eyes,
so bright
when she looks
at me.
I touch her hair,
and whisper
in her ear.
An angel
wrapped in gauze
prays to a god
she's never seen.
I hold her hand,
long after she's let go.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
An autumn
sunbeam on
the edge of my
childhood bed,
curled up with my
softly purring cat
nestled by my side.
Two unlike creatures,
brought together in warmth.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
I ate from
a rotting bowl
writhing fruits
picked blindly
by the crone
who set her children
free into
the forest.
They whisper
in the
tangled brush,
snatching at
the ankles
of those who
wander
from the path.
Under grey
skies
weeping their
first snow,
the crackling
branches twist in their
death throes,
as wretched beasts
burrow through
their brittle bodies
to hide
from the cold.
And from the
children,
who play
at being
wolves.
The crone
speaks before the
hearth,
of little but the
cold,
stirring her
filth over
heartless
flame.
She says their
names,
never quite
smiling,
but weeps
softly
when she cannot
remember
her own.
I do not
tell her mine,
for fear
she will one day
whisper it
upon the
embers.
On my leave,
she called
once from the
darkened doorway,
a plea to a girl
she once knew,
answered by
mad laughter
from the
cold and dark,
where no
footsteps
fall.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC