#seraph
I am weighed down
So
So
Much
And yet I am fine.
Although I feel like
There are a thousand seraphs ripping my insides
That there are vultures picking at my heart like a scrap of meat
And that there are millions of rocks hung over my chest
I am fine.
As much as you dissect me
Or **** at my brain
You will never see that I wasn't fine
Because I'm fine
And you cannot convince me otherwise.
Dec 16, 2025
Dec 16, 2025 at 8:48 PM UTC
it was so long and so long ago
in a gloaming-lit room where the lamplight lay low,
that i, with the hand of a slumbering saint,
summoned a spirit from water and paint.
no angel in heaven had garments so fair,
his robe was of lustre, his crown made of air,
and his wings, they were tremulous shawls of the sea,
and he looked; yes, he looked; ever rarin’ for me.
i knew not his name, nor the path he would take,
but i dreamed him in silence, for dreaming’s own sake.
and i left him alone in the hems of the sky,
where the clouds chimed gray and the years drifted by.
but o!—through the tombs where the sun-blind are led,
he wandered, he wandered, the palette of dread,
till the Lord, in a hush, let His finger unbind
the brushstroke from Time, and the thought from my mind.
and he fell like a stain from the hand of a heir;
as dew falls unseen on the throat of the air.
with the sigh of a page that has turned in the gloom,
he came to my door as if risen from tomb.
he remembered the lines i had drawn as a child,
the blush in his cheeks, and the colors run wild;
his voice freed the sinners and demons from Hell,
as though all the old noels had forgotten to dwell.
he bore not sacral swords from kingdoms above,
but eyes that had wept through the ink of my love.
and he whispered—o Heaven!—he whispered to me:
“i searched all the stars, but you painted the sea.”
now each day that i bide in the shade of his grace,
the world is a shush when i gaze on his face.
for he walks with the mumble of chants that were true,
the cherub i painted, who came when fate knew.
and though men may scoff, and though suns may implode,
the colors still bloom where my longing abode.
for love, in its balm, is a sacred decree,
and he is the seraph God borrowed from me.
Jun 12, 2025
Jun 12, 2025 at 7:43 AM UTC
Night 1:
I spend my last, and hurting days
Attempting to erase your face,
And the memory of your last hug:
Fingers tugging on the lace
of my dress,
and the purple velvet of the blanket,
Covering both our skins,
Our vulnerability,
And passion.
Night 2:
I am trying to forget,
But you stained me like ashes from a cigarette
On the white fabric you used to wear.
Or still do... who knows?
You haunt me, but I come to trace your silhouette,
And **** you’re gone again—
Maybe protected in the shadows.
Night 3:
Where are you today, my joy?
Where am I?
I hopelessly wander the empty, sandy dunes,
Watching the full infinite moons
Pass by.
Night 4:
I never thought I would be the one to leave you—
I always thought it would be the other way around.
I am truly lost...
The sandy dunes are, in fact, hills of beige frost,
And I am scared;
I am scarred.
You’re an irreplaceable piece of art,
And I’m too far from where you are.
Night 5:
My hands are shaken, and are bruised.
I am ashamed; I am confused.
Clearly, the only way to **** off a memory is through abuse.
I learned to take a pill—
It does claim to have my pain reduced!
And the velvet,
And the lace,
Are appearing to erase.
Then goes a smudge of colour;
Next, leaves a seraphic face...
What was the purpose of a greyish-blueish gaze?
Who knows?
Who am I?
Who are you?
Who is who?
I am no one anymore;
For there is no one to adore.
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 4:43 PM UTC
I awoke in a dream
Surrounded by a bilious familiarity
Angry shades of the drying blood of hope
Caked over venomous fangs of discontent
Stagnant shadows of effluvium
Emanate from the molten flesh
Of this creature I seem to know
But how, how do i know this putrid soul
This being, born of irascible acrimony
Seething breaths sear my senses
As I feel the pounding heart
Scream within it's chest
Aflame with the atrocities it has incited
Yet, in it's gentle eyes there is no malice
There is only the reflection of an angel
Gossamer vestments blow in the stillness
So effulgent in the darkness
Again, familiar and uncomfortable
It's eyes bore into mine that reflection of heaven
I could not see myself in those eyes
That gaze seemed to hypnotize in its polarity
As I floated unseen, I looked at this being
Seething miasmata while reflecting a seraph
Acidic tears of truth fell from within my poisoned soul
As the creature and the reflection merged in the bluest flame
And transformed my spirit into flesh
I am both the reflection and the being
Living the anguish of the truth of what I am
Fighting every moment to be less than and more than
Pretending that I do not embody the dichotomy of bile and bliss
Seraph and succubus
The truth and the lie
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
If you hear endearment in the plea
leave the echoed sigh of sympathy
and come with your libretto lungs
and lips of red zephyr absolution
to purify the black coughs of cumulus
evaporating the enclosure
of my satin-threaded fetters
A failed emblem of security
in solitary journeys
Come and lay your mortal coil
of seraphic incarnation
next to my imprisoned vessel
of corrupted humanness
Slow my palpitating hourglass
of ashen peace-of-mind
with organic visitations of
your marble maze shrines
Here I can placate my warped
direction with the porcelain decor
of your serene skin
Angel
Wrap your light around my being
like the sun around an icicle
then release me long enough
to euphemise the darkness in me
from de-light to silhouette enlightenment
Hear my plea
muffled by annulled identity
Be the angel
hiding in my boiled
satin threads
and reveal me
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC