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  May 3 White Widow
Onoma
Jesus copped

a poetical attitude

so we might be

forgiven.

sticking to our

tongues.
  Apr 18 White Widow
Pagan Paul
.
The orb sinks below an horizon,
through a ***** window
bowing out with all grace,
concluding another day
and I write.
A stream of conscious falls
and fills a page with woe,
my heart cradled in dark
as another wave of nausea
interrupts a pleasant dusk time.

The pen rests but itches to scrawl.
The words are counted there,
the order somewhat confused.
And slowly, slowly, cautious,
they flow with random airs.
The darkness of day's end
seeping into every phrase
without prejudice.

The number 2 in relief
inscribed upon a brass disc
reflects the dullness of evening,
styled like a swan
in a maudlin funeral pose.
The day scurries away,
grey clouds tumble above,
another quiet night beckons.
I taper light a candle
welcoming the flame as company.
The pen still lays silent,
abandoned.
The itch to scrawl spent,
dreaming.
Dreaming in the mist.

Horns call from the ether
floating through the mind,
as a quill dips ink
ready to be born and flourish
in a better world.
As the first word
is inscribed across the page,
the rest tumble race
to be arranged in neat rows,
to entice the eyes of readers.
The continue to flow
with increasing agony
in a far-seeing mind-scape.
The memories of time rise up,
breaking the fragile surface,
and over-run the quill pen.
Words fighting to get out
and be immortalised
upon a crisp white leaf page.
The fine strokes go on
until the thread ends.
But instantly picks up the next
and starts to weave and sew,
stitching another stream of words.
The tapestry starts to form,
an image for a story.
But the mist returns and coils
and the pen sleeps on.
Its dreams just wisps of smoke,
a candle snubbed and extinguished.


I stare at the redundant pen,
a white feather waiting.
I think of another story,
a white feather waiting.
A call to tickle the pages,
a white feather waiting.
But there is a spectre also,
the black ink of nightmare.

The pen dreams of eloquence,
I dream in the dark.
The pen wishes for permanence,
I wish for the spark.
Ignite me! Ignite me!
Don't try to fight me.
Ignite me! Ignite me!
Take words and write me.

Scribe my name across your heart and read,
words my pen writes and my mind bleeds.


© Pagan Paul (28/03/20)
.
  Apr 18 White Widow
Thomas W Case
I sit back in
the place of attack, but equipped for
battle this time;
The enemy won't win.
I laugh at him as
I greet the dawn with
a love soaked heart.
It smells like
leather, and my baby's hair.
I'm fully aware of
the antagonist's snares, and tricks,
but we won't be trapped.
See, this isn't a
tragedy, it's the epitome
of romance and victory.
I'm a stallion, and
she rides me into
the evening as we
eat peaches and
pomegranates, and let
the juice glisten on
our faces in God's
glorious setting sun.
  Apr 16 White Widow
AstralPotato
The smiles you bring weren't the brightest
But they were sincere; I knew it best
Like thousand little stars in a dark night
Not too bright yet enough to shed some light

So when you finally built a mask of joy
Surprised I was, it felt like a decoy
The unwavering mask resembled you too much
Too much yet too firm and lifeless as such

Do you think this is all your journey to venture?
Seeing you smile in pain was a torture
The thousand little stars dimming with the dark
Were now thousand little scars; gone all the spark

I have watched you from afar to know it all
The mishaps and the pain where you suffer and fall
You have told no one of this side of yourself
But we're here to listen, if you mind do tell

This is not the end, remember this
You are not alone in this great abyss
We are here behind you waiting to be reached
For when you fall we'll get you back on your feet

We'll be venturing this darkness together
We'll bring back the little stars who faltered
  Apr 14 White Widow
AstralPotato
The agony of knowing
Things have been broken
Yet you stayed silent;
Little words left unspoken
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