#succession
The throne room
Iconoclast, worldly color
To a fashion of wishes, in this gloom
We succeed the curt, if not courteous, with valor...
Simple irony, in the verse of the sky
Spare, succinct, share and relinquish
Hold the scare, of a time to rely
Upon a salty stare, that does wish:
Halves of silence, a waiting egg
With two thoughts, to give you
A hair is a story, best served in bed
A stare is hoary, unless a smile runs into could...
A sign on the door, that knew the heat
Forever in a swallow of water, that has smelled a flower
Show, merit, know, and scare; inspiration...
Is a jewel of family's, to understate a certain power
Lightning strikes, but luck never does
Your chances and ye somberness
Is a quieter finish, to a meal to the ingenue of us
A weary stare that is, the place of a need's wisdom?
How, comes the voice of the king...
Sweet as a strive, sour as a stark can be
My notion, to feed the forlorn, is a sweaty promise, to mean
Is a caring God, the privilege of a charity in couth, or a shallow ****
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 1:27 PM UTC
Hate, rhapsody
Have, antipathy
Haps, retrogression
Half, simplicity
The beauty, the har of sincerity
To come at you, with a field of life
Sorrow, in a place you would never steal for liberty...?
A maddened eye, in love with thee, for a scrutiny's night
We sleep like the other side
The boat of essence, to wish in our ears
A fable and the charity of calamity, shied
Away from our pace, of suggesting callousness is all of fears
The dream of soap and its bared waters...
'So simple a prayer, of the soul of dementia
When a heavy eye in the know, a keep of bothers
Is a savages or patience's run, to lies about a world with a dilemma...
Sleep eats nothing, but what it is given...
Stange endeavor, a hap to consider a pretty such and doth hush
Is a labor of live, with love to prove the world, is dread living
For the kindness of chances and choice, to take from you, thus...
And give back a lover of a worldly wish
Sated with the frustration, of composure in the norm
Tense though a wavering ecstasy can be, love knows you to relinquish
A chastity of silence and callousness, that has committed to us, form
Love, I keep a silly pillow...
Wages of sin, or borrowed lucre, I know the belly of thee
Like a wait for sunshine and method's summoning owe
To a rages few, the privilege of couth passed, with a lover's deed...
Dec 26, 2025
Dec 26, 2025 at 12:44 PM UTC
Haven't
The weight of a home:
Just misery, in a wait, saving meant
For a friend, a shape of things to come
To come in a reign
Of symmetry, any old heart
Of wishes will do; a hunger for fame
That esteem, is an escort to choose smart
From a handier salt...
The world to confirm, candor
Of a needy walk with fault
Before a care has the truth, to serve
A shadow, a fear's angel...
With a borrowed tear...?
Fly away, and heed the gait of hell
Is my nobility, a truer crush of we're?
Pipe's of hatred?
Introducing a friend
As a copious blossom of a time, to lead
Another nefarious and austere means, away from sin...
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 3:55 PM UTC
Two of salt
Have a heaven, have a done
Wrent with the times, a unison fault?
A picture of silence, when you have a question?
What is salt to a weary heaven?
Claim the door, or make a fruit a sovereign future
We have the sulking, the tradition of when art is the question
Can a hardier nuance, become the notion to endure?
A picture of paradise?
Promises and privilege, to greet your decisions
Of waiting and fating the stare, opus hopes is wise
So to a form in choices void, is a wakeful two, intimation?
Of a welling conscience, and the first of many kinds
Of wishes for, and taken with impressions visit
Medians or tedium, a rule of voice is to become our mind
A sake, with tomorrow on its nerves, and the rest of the future for wit
Creating the art of hours, a wishing order to worth
Is a raging held in honor or contempt?
Longing for a masters stroke, can a sharing candor, leave us with certain...
Ours of heed, and curiosity, to be a show of what life lent?
The mastery of a premonition
To work the magic of the age, a host's place and or confirmation
Come by the senses of another, to speak the truth of intuition
That has become the pout of romantic powers, a vision of a generation?
Nov 22, 2024
Nov 22, 2024 at 3:36 AM UTC
I watched King Charles’ coronation this morning.
I’m not British and some things confused me.
For instance, they kept saying “The new king.”
New? The guy’s a boomer - at least - right?
Apparently, he is, at once, the oldest king
ever and the newest king yet.
Can we talk about the old lady with the crown?
The wrinkled one on the right of him, in white,
the crypt keeper, with genuine platinum hair.
At first, I thought that it was Charles’ mother.
But apparently, the old Queen died.
Has anyone looked into that?
Anyone who’s read Shakespeare knows
how brutal royals can be and successions,
over time, have earned a sketchy reputation.
Anyway, I wish him well. I wouldn’t want to live a life
where everyone around me moves up a notch
if something sudden and nasty happened to me.
May 6, 2023
May 6, 2023 at 12:37 PM UTC
Upon the deathbed of Old Man Winter
Autumn placed her golden crown,
and as his heart began to thaw
he helped Spring lace her morning gown.
Dec 23, 2019
Dec 23, 2019 at 8:34 PM UTC
In ragged feet, I rushed across the bridge-
Gleaming periwinkles flourished in the distant fields
Reflecting the cloud-free sky,
Golden sunflowers pitted the hills like pus. In the distance,
Fringed with yellow and red, stood a tent
And within was the warlord, aged now and grizzled,
His parchment skin and toothless smile a rebuke
To his youthful triumphs.
His guards parted. I entered
Into a swirling fog of scent
A floor covered in bright-coloured carpets.
Gesturing, the old man bade I move closer
And, belly swollen by hunger, I slowly advanced.
Touching my forehead with a wrinkled finger
He said: “You are my successor.”
I ate well for months.
I was given my own guards,
My own beautiful tent.
Even though only a boy
I received several lovers.
Those around me always listened
To my words. They obeyed.
Every other day, beneath the pubescent
Glare of the early sun,
I hunted deer and lions, protected
By a hundred archers. Every day
I dined on venison.
The old king rarely left the camp.
Late morning he donned his shimmering,
Armour, reflecting shards of brilliant light,
And for an hour reviewed his warriors
On the nearby heath, soured by winds. He,
A wretched old man wrapped in ermine.
After, as a whim, sending them off to die,
Dribbling from his lips, beneath sunken cheeks
And rheumy eyes, at the end of his creeping
Days. Returning to his tent, swaddled
By remembrances. Impotent in body and mind.
We played cards together once a month
Surrounded by slaves. The candelabras burst
With perfumed radiance: musicians played
Soothing songs on cymbals, drums and flutes.
Girls danced; swinging, pirouetting,
Leaping in the excited manner of newly-born fawns.
The air grew heavy with dust.
The air grew pungent with odour.
Scattered around were dishes of date and melon.
“When I die, twenty years from now,” he began, smiling,
Popping a date into his mouth. “You will be king.
And rule as I ruled. A celebrated warrior and judge.
A killer of thieves, destroyer of cities. When old,
As I now am old, you too will seek a successor-
A ragged, hungry boy born to rule, who one day
Walks into your home.”
The king dipped a date into goat’s milk.
He watched me as an owl watches a mouse,
His moist lips smacking audibly. “But that will
Be many years from now.” He continued.
He smiled again, the smile of a torturer.
Within the year I lead his armies,
Rampaging across the wild, blasted plains
And to the walls of distant cities
Leaving piles of bones. I returned
With wagons full of gold, dragging behind
A thousand slaves. The king meanwhile
Lounged in his garlanded tent eating sweets,
Hoarding his growing wealth, washed and perfumed
By half-naked handmaidens.
After two years I planned his death,
And claimed the kingdom for myself.
When spring came the mountain rain fell, the rivers overflowed,
The sun was a yellow bud,
My armies rested on the hills
Polishing their weapons with dew.
The king had ordered veal that day cooked in spices
From the east. He drank watered wine.
The multitude of slaves sang love songs with pitiful voices.
I stole into his tent at twilight.
He lay asleep on his divan, bloated and belching.
A warbler burbled in the trees,
A jay cackled from bushes by the water’s edge.
I lifted my knife and softly approached
His slumbering form. He opened his eyes and smiled
As I buried it in his chest.
I sit on a throne surrounded by my
Endlessly-victorious regiments, king of a thousand lands, eating
Fruits from India, chewing fragrant leaves from the furthest isles where the sun
Burns forever. I have grown fat.
I have grown old. I look out towards the bridge,
Cracked, worn, covered with vines, vexed by the
Rivers surging tides. I search the horizon
For a ragged boy bringing in his unblemished soul
My death.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
*People put me down
I begin to frown
Not knowing how to deal with the pain
But then I realize that what is to gain
But this is no longer my downfall
Motivation
I've been making it my succession
Instead of my depression
Not letting the oppression stop me
Cause that's not how it's suppose to be
Motivation
Moving on from my past
Not coming in last place
In the mind blowing race
called life
This is my motivation*
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
I don't travel for a living, I travel to feel alive.
And I've learned that nothing will better illuminate the path ahead of you than a burned bridge behind you.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC