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Paul R Mott Oct 2013
In these stuck between hours
I discover the noise of being
that comes from an atmosphere
not used to being heard

The warping of the wooden doors
goes on unabashedly.
Like animals in untouched climes
they scurry along unaware
of conscious eyes that stare
only for selfish reasons

The observer adulterates
a once selfless night

Nowadays the timbers under
the floor have lost their
native timbre, taken on
a softer echo of carpet covered servility

Even after mistakes are recovered,
these once savage floors can no longer reclaim
any primal creak after being tucked into
domesticity for so long with soft footsteps of children
paired with repressed stomps of soul-starved adults
left cold by countless other floors never once
imbued with the life of a home.
emily May 2016
The guise of a false hope warily cloaks
an unkempt soul bereft of fortitude -
stolid in the belligerent face of unnamed evil,
an aura of past opulence adulterates naive purity,
the stigma augmented by an insidious breach

of internal asylum. The vulnerability of
a soldier against oneself takes precedence
in the chasmal crusade yet to come; omniscient
intimation gives way to dour prophecies,
ambidextrous in their intricate verbosity.

Molten in the inferno of cross-interrogation,
pliable in the hands of a mortared veteran,
reiteration serves only as a gibe, a grievance
only the most foolish jester would make
before a corroding monarch. The demons

have rallied for annihilation; the starling
warbles an aria of capitulation, its notes
reverberating through the tentative sunset,
a sky of gray and orange mingling with the song
to convey an unequivocal defeat. But after every

dusk comes a period of resurrection, and from the haze
emerges a heroine unrecognizable if not for eyes
ablaze with scarred determination. She strides
with the strength of ten thousand legions, a leviathan's
courage uncovered in her still-beating heart.

The devil flees, uncomfortable in the blinding presence
of mortal accompanied by heavenly body. This -
this is redemption for armor lost, the answer
to her yearning prayers that had been barely audible over the
convulsing sobs that had swallowed her for so long.

Finally vanquished of the toxic beast that had claimed her,
she rises victorious, proclaiming amidst glory a single word -
“Checkmate.”
strike me down and I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.
Adam Kinsley Feb 2020
The delight of my defection:
A plethora of schemes
Regret still stalks me, patiently
My dreams gave up on me

Silence overwhelms my seemingly cordial heart
My conscience is on vacation
The chasm between morals and impulse widens
I dive, headlong, into self destruction

My bones shake with envy and fragility
The regret in my heart seems insurmountable
It's difficult to run from your own tactless heart
To endure the most patient heartache

My senses dangle in haughty enticement
Disregard stalks me like a thief
My mind adulterates each contention of my heart
I cannot ignore its silence...

— The End —