#striker
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...And then they would place their pistols beneath their chins and pull the trigger. I would see it as some cylindrical spatter of blood escaping from the tops of their heads, like over exaggerated gore from the adult movies. So what would happen next for them exactly? Blackness? No. That is still something. Perhaps just empty. No. Can't be. Empty has potential to be filled, rendering it not quite nothing. I suppose it would be like before you were born. Do you remember it?
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
The world is wide and the wind is cold,
But here they stand in a grip of old.
One is the grit of the crimson wall,
The other, a splinter, thin and tall.
They do not speak of the open sky,
Or the meadows where the shadows lie.
They only know the press of face,
The friction of this narrow space.
He is the chemical, restless soul,
With a head of sulfur and a single goal.
She is the surface, rough and worn,
Where every spark is fiercely born.
To turn away is to lose the heat,
To admit the rhythm is incomplete.
So they lean in closer, bone to bone,
Afraid of the dark if left alone.
A sudden pull, a frantic rasp,
A desperate light within their grasp.
The flame is bright, a gold flare-up,
Spilling out of a shallow cup.
But fire is hungry, and wood is slight,
It eats the very thing that gives it light.
He turns to ash in her jagged hand,
While she stays rooted to the land.
They cannot turn, they cannot bend,
They only know how stories end......
In the smell of smoke and a blackened mark,
Waiting for the next match in the dark.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 10:20 PM UTC