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301 · Mar 22
stream
vik Mar 22
i've always been a stream
ever flowing
ever changing
carving my way through the earth's tender skin
whispering ancient secrets to the stones newly birthed from the mountain's embrace,
their edges sharp with youth.
i mourn the fleeting death of grass
knowing it will return,
yet feeling each loss as if it were the last.
i greet the birds that dip their wings in my waters,
the trees that shade my journey,
the life that springs and fades along my edges,
each moment, a momentary reflection
in my endless course.
i move on,
carrying memories that dissolve in my depths
until all that remains is the motion,
the ceaseless forgetting.

i've always admired the ocean,
vast and ancient,
cradling life beneath its dark, unknowable surface.
it bears witness to the birth and death
of a million dreams
yet holds onto the bones of forgotten worlds
that rest in its silent, sunken graves.
unchanging, it reflects the sky's face
absorbing the storms
but never surrendering its secrets.
the ocean is stillness,
a deep, solitary wisdom
i've always longed to be.

oh, to be the ocean,
to hold the weight of history in my depths,
to be vast, to be constant,
to be silent,
but never alone.
im actually a bathtub
126 · Jun 14
effigy green
vik Jun 14
she dwelt in pith of elder breath,
rusting tongue of loam;
hidden in tulle of former death,
enthroned in nightfall’s home.

the moon bestowed her phantom crown,
the ivy's grasp too deep;
i rose from earth, feathered renown,
in sable wrapped to keep.
88 · Jun 17
still
vik Jun 17
she lieth clay, huff fled, withdrawn;
sun sleeps unturned, no lilt, no dawn.

the child stands silent, priests deceive,
she lingers not, the Lord won’t breathe.

they spake of light, of rule, of psalm,
yet death embraced what once was warm.

he looked and found the flesh laid bare;
at last he grasped, God was not there.
29 · Jun 30
war-marked
vik Jun 30
i woke inside the trench.
my teeth were not my own.
my hand was gone, or chewed
in word i’d never known.

the war was soft and wet.
the skull had turned to chalk.
birds dropped like folded notes.
the siege forgot to talk.

she rode like wrath grown tall.
her helm was grief made gold.
no mercy in her path,
just silence, woe and cold.

the saints had kissed her lips.
their bones were in her hair.
the banner trailed behind,
stitched from a baby’s prayer.

she said:
stand. (i was.)
bleed. (i am.)
forget. (i have.)

they named her rust and sin.
they called her winterborn.
i called her sir. she knelt.
she cracked the siegehorns’ horn.

she fed the dying steeds.
she named them one by one.
she burnt all of their spines
beneath a rotting sun.

we drank the ink from flags.
we ate the borderlines.
we fed the crowns to crows
we wept in battle lines.

dull gape, like beryl stars,
spun like a compass dead.
she searched for Gods on fire,
who left the church in red.

our vows were carved in filth.
she wore a veil of teeth.
i wore the wound she gave
and nothing else beneath.
a love poem, oddly enough
0 · Jun 30
dear species
vik Jun 30
dear species
because you leave your porchlight on
in case someone visits and
lock your door in case they do

and because you grow flowers
on your balconies
and forget the names
of your neighbors

dear species because
you speak in apologies
for things you plan to do again
and dress your cruelty
in ceremony

and because you write history
in permanent ink
then hand out
erasers

dear species because
you measure wisdom
in years survived
but treat the aged
as inconvenience

and because you name nations
like they are gods
then worship flags
more than faces

dear species because
you build the theatre
before you write the play
and clap before the ending
just to be certain
someone hears

and because you lay bricks
over quiet
and call the wall
a necessary boundary

dear species because
you build schools to teach peace
and factories to fund war
and never once
see the contradiction
as anything but tradition

dear species
i regret to inform you
you are still
the punchline
inspired by humanity, i love you :D
0 · Jun 30
road to Ephemera
vik Jun 30
my bus draws in a shudder down the chine
of tarmac dusk; the heavens not quite mine,
  sole slick of oil beneath a slant of bane.
we pass late souls, their windows’ chasmal wounds,
mongrels lie limp in lawns that no one prunes,
       and gardens taint in hiding, piled in vain.

the mounds give way behind their sunken name,
worn to bone, yet stripped of earned acclaim,
  they bend like oaths soon shattered by the dawn.
their bark was not quite mine, though flesh i’d come to know;
but woods are nonsense wrapped in autumn’s glow,
  lone pyrrhic den that holds no lasting mourn.

my face bursts into shards without a frame,
my eyes and veins are ichor’s vile flame,
  the fire not quite mine; it climbs a colder spire.
once saccharine and syrup tight as lace,
i kissed the charm, then drifted into space,
  and yet rue looped itself around a wire.

she spoke in sore orts of scripture that night,
her verses saintly writhen out of the light,
    wry sultry keen she wore beneath her skin.
she faded soon, as fever always goes;
i kept her spikes in jars, where sorrow grows,
     bittersweet ire, not quite mine, burning in.

the driver hums beneath a simmering pall,
a woman knits her rosary’s funeral call,
  the beads tightening a hoop around her breath.
a child bleeds cherry from a sinful shed,
blasphemy clings close, like blood to the head,
  a carcass, not quite mine, trails close to death.

i glean spent hours from dusk’s malicious shrine,
seek vestiges where aching seasons twine,
  and in their still, catch breathlessly, a rhyme.
what breaks behind remains in salt and brine,
   all not quite mine, yet wholly mine, this time.
0 · Jun 22
dossiers
vik Jun 22
i logged the warheads’ saintly arc,
through treaties transcribed just to shrink,
while taboo colonized the dark,
a name is never worth the ink.

i processed breath in programmed loops,
the margins where the righteous blink,
between the cables and the troops,
a name is never worth the ink.

each border twitched in nitrate maps,
the walls revised in auto-sync,
i traced the bloodstained autographs,
a name is never worth the ink.

she entered nothing but a tag,
a field in forms that didn’t think,
her voice absorbed by final lag,
a name is never worth the ink.

the city burned in filament,
the state dreamed red and blue in sync,
we lost her in the precedent,
a name is never worth the ink.

the cat observed, the shutters closed,
she left a toothbrush by the sink,
her absence, not to be disclosed,
a name is never worth the ink.

the archives hum. the geiger talks.
my shell is built where memos clink.
they tested God beneath the rocks:
a name is never worth the ink.

deterrence smiles with sober teeth,
bureaucracy demands a link,
but all that lives remains beneath,
a name is never worth the ink.
mutually assured destruction
0 · Jun 22
what the eye denies
vik Jun 22
i shut my eyes and see the wardens bloom
their leer adrift above a nescient sea.
(i think the insects swallowed up my womb.)

they linger whist in ***** afternoon,
where sky and ocean taint what used to be.
i shut my eyes and see the wardens bloom.

the trees revive a name they won’t assume,
truth trickles through their twigs too slow, too free.
(i think the insects swallowed up my womb.)

the world gives in to predetermined doom;
the sun forgets, the branches disagree.
i shut my eyes and see the wardens bloom.

light limps in shreds through a decaying tomb,
and every ray once knew of memory.
(i think the insects swallowed up my womb.)

love was a ghost...
no, love was just perfume
now scentless, lost in stolid atpy.
i shut my eyes and see the wardens bloom.
(i think the insects swallowed up my womb.)
🪰
0 · Jun 16
nevermore
vik Jun 16
once upon a murky gleaming, while I sat in peaceful dreaming,
haunted by the golden streaming of a sun I knew before;
while i lingered, senses slipping, sudden came a memory, dripping;
dripping soft as footsteps; tipping o’er a childhood door.
“’tis a dream,” i whispered faintly, “just a dream, and nothing more,
    just the dawn, and nothing more.”

ah, i well recall the hour, twin in soul and form and flower,
two in gait, in skirt and collar, bound for days that soared and tore.
hand in hand we walked unknowing, where the amber sky was glowing,
past the railing, wind still blowing, through a world we’d yet explore,
past the gleam and fading laughter down a bridge of evermore...
    gone, it seems, forevermore.

and the warm and wistful trailing of her shadow, faint and failing,
fell across my thoughts like ashes from a hearth now cold and sore.
strangely stilled was all her love, changed her tone to aching woe,
gone the warmth, replaced by woe, cold and clean behind closed doors.
“speak,” i begged, “the one I cherished, has she vanished to some shore?”...
   but the silence answered, “nevermore.”

then I climbed a roof, forsaken, sunset gold and soul mistaken,
there to gaze on roofs and fences of a life i held before.
she, the girl with pigtail braiding, now in poise and poise parading,
spoke in tongues of grown detaching, eyes that sought my own no more.
“has the night devoured her laughter, locked it past some inner door?”
      still the air replied, “no more.”

o, how softly sang the twilight! once we shared this selfsame skylight,
now i watch alone, in silence, as the orange embers pour.
roof and ridge in shadow yawn, and all the girl i knew was gone,
changed to stranger sharp and drawn, who held my hand no more.
and the sky, once wide and wondrous, seemed to whisper from its core:
    “you shall find her; nevermore.”

was it time that drew the curtain, or some sorrow, slow but certain?
did she walk ahead in yearning for a self she fancied more?
did i falter? was i clinging? while her soul began its winging,
winging toward a world where union withered into folklore?
still I searched the golden fading, still I reached, forever sore,
      she is not the girl before.

so i sit, alone, in grieving, sun and shadow interweaving,
all the bridges burnt and silent that we crossed in days of yore.
and within that glow descending, I saw not her form, unbending,
but the ghost of all pretending we had ever been before.
now my soul, beneath that sunset, whispers softly evermore:
      “she is gone, and nothing more.”
inspired by edgar allan poe's 'raven'
0 · Jun 12
love, in its balm
vik Jun 12
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.
🪽

— The End —