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Winn Sep 2023
Where did you go
You know
The queens and kings?

All those who jumped on board?

What did you "win"?
Some celebration
at the anahilation?

You conquered this, your "toughest game"
You celebrated your "fame"
for a moment ....

You disappeared into cyberspace
You were replaced .

(Same fare you offered him...)

Fried Pickles and Jacks with Axes
The man who digs the bones.

Photo buried at dirt crossroads ,
Living Life old and alone.

Headlights crossing down the highway,
Hearse comes to take him home.
Cherry burst upon the highway
discarded like the fame you've known.

Two years too late...
Sealed my fate.
Compliant and Complicit.

No one left to defend.. banished into cyberspace.
The King and Queen since replaced.
Legacy erased.

His wisdom still graces pages,
One of Poetry's greatest Sages.

© 29-30Sept 2023 Winnie Carolina
  Sep 2023 Winn
What’s this glaze
over my eyes…

A heavy mist
with fingers…
that lingers.
A cataract that
dives and claws
into the black
of irises.

A film,
a veil,
a canvas botched
and vandalised
with arguing paints.
And indelible black
that sings of sadness,
highlights the aches
of dejection
and screams
Winn Jan 2023
My head is resting on the fog
that cushions Pillow Mountain.
My eyes are streaming waterfalls,
flowing like a fountain.

This misty dream, it seems
was but illusion, fleeting;
A second saved within a lifetime
on a random meeting.

The silken mist embraces you:
my feet are bound by clay.
The coldness of the Earth you left
binds me day by day.

I can't write for you. It all falls short.
©Winnie Carolina
Winn Dec 2022
The ticking clock, like gunshots through my head
aimed at my youthful ignorance...
the scent of you still lingers in our bed.

I ghost through space, not living, not yet dead -
straddle chasms of our best intents-
the ticking clock, like gunshots through my head...

My mind still hears the poetry you read,
replays the laugh of youth's exuberance,
the scent of you still lingers in our bed.

I enter empty house now, filled with dread.
I feel your absence, all it represents-
the ticking clock, like gunshots through my head.

A fog billows in, begins to spread,
as death comes to erode all innocence.
The scent of you still lingers in our bed.

My nose has plundered through each precious thread
for faintest linger of your redolence...
the ticking clock, like gunshots in my head.
The scent of you is fading from our bed...

© Mar 2018, Winnie Carolina

07/21/1954 (08/05/15)-12/07/2022
© Mar 2018, Winnie Carolina
Winn Feb 2022
Leather boots perched on a rail,
and not a speck of dust is showing.
A cigarette between the lips,
but there's no ember glowing.
A redhawk circles overhead,
but all I hear is chickens crowing...
All was then and all is lost. You're clinging to the final showing...

Number One and number Two were banished into cyberspace.
And further down the line the one who envied to usurp the space.

I was sitting on the Mighty Mountain. I watched the Wishanabes go
marching through the lowly valley,
following row by row.
But that was then and this is now.
It doesn't matter anyhow;
your fleeting sense of stolen fame.
You have lost your "toughest game".

Digging bones and brushing dirt,
abandoned in your lonely hurt...
a forgotten name, forgotten face
lost within cyberspace.

22022022 © Winnie Carolina
22022022 © Winnie Carolina
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