"airless" poems
it is my birthday.
but the world has long disowned me.
honestly--I ask--why do I bother?
as there must be something there for me--out in the viscera.
for I, am still here.
it is my birthday.
but the public has long shunned me.
faces thick as bedrock and eyes as dull as mint wrappers.
and they use sound to blind them.
it is my birthday.
and no one seems to help.
for it is not always happy to know,
you're one day closer into the arms of the cease-r.
it is my birthday.
and words rule no meaning.
for no one listens to me.
and no one hears what I'm hearing.
it is my birthday.
and my marrow weakens as I breath.
but bones sleep with welded lips 'neath the coat of earth.
and--with shame--I shall, too, be nothing but empty research.
it is my birthday.
and I force myself to nature.
O sand, is it true they pick you up and throw you in the wind?
O sea, is it true you get stuck in the mouths and stomachs of the young?
O hair, is it true you scream when the air beats you?
but I don't hear--and I know many.
it is my birthday.
and I breath false air.
is it true the ones that speak ill are on their death bed?
is it wrong I wish for them to speed up time?
is it wrong I point the reaper in their direction?
so I needn't worry of their illness spreading to mine.
it is my birthday.
and we are all gathered for tea.
the masochists sit by the sadists; that's the rule,
so the sadist may draw that ball-point pen deep along their slate skin--and whisper the names of forgotten authors,
so they may both moan with delicious harmony together--for two presents in one.
it is my birthday.
and the masochists ask me to join.
they write each other's eulogies
and revise--revise--'til there are none.
it is my birthday.
for now you know not,
of what I wish, but what I need,
a master.
for I am not one.
it is my birthday.
and not all wishes deem true,
for it seems no one cares of my words--my work--my blood--my tears--
a hymn to whomever it may concern--have you no mercy?
it is my birthday.
and I have not found them.
I have not found the right.
for only airless voices with no mouths, eyes that wish for many more, and souls that have lost time have found me.
and I am one of them.
and 'neath my heart,
I always will be.
for it is my birthday,
and wishes don't come true.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
#
*Hanging like a scimitar
suspended in the sky,
the moon beside a gleaming star
is pleasing to the eye.
How desolate, this satellite
in airless ebon space
and yet, from here
‘tis beautiful
filagree & lace.*
#
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
What might it be that doesn't let me compete to three verses ?
Perhaps it is that I tend to write longer poems, perhaps the lengh
shouldn't matter so much as the message is carried through.
From mind to heart, then to ones soul I try to reach out with no goal.
Yet am beaten, brought back down, by three verses which show up
with such malice, ominous, threatful aura, they have approached me.
I pretend not to mind, I pretend not to have seen it, yet the simple,
silly, broken stream in my thoughts has already engaged it.
So that it once again, cannot repress, envy on such a level.
My writing style might have been through changes, might have
come to a disliking to those who prefer a clear, structured, yet well
recorded, beautiful and magnificent rhyme pattern.
That should surely catch one's eye, perhaps fill them with glee and
bliss, happy thoughts that they would miss once they are gone.
But no, I cannot turn, this path was chosen, locked, destined to be
walked upon on an journey which has become endless, by time
which had stopped passing anymore.
So now it became unrecognised, forgotten, left in an abyss without
any light to expose it to the world outside my head.
Such is the fate, which I will gladly bear with, for this, has been
a route, from which I learn and educate.
So go ahead, you can take my flame thrice, even if I might not be
able to burn this image into your eyes, this ember, about to go out
from the cold, windy, airless area, will only burn brighter.
As it rises from the ashes and yet again, goes ablaze
~ Umi
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:55 PM UTC
Heee! Heee! Hooooooo…..
Well, Hello, lovebirds…making love are we?
One on top of the other
still with flesh and organs all intact
and making all sorts of crude noises
and getting into this messy business –
getting your bed sticky and wet with sweat;
ah, you beings of flesh and blood and ecstasies
unlike me
just bones and a mere ghost me now living
lonely and in airless worlds
sent there by you my wife under that man
and you the man who helped poison me -
now you are over my wife
and you raise your **** to the gods
Hheeee…heeee….heeee… Heee! Heee! Hooooooo…..
Well, Hello, lovebirds…making love are we?
I’ll be back every time the two of you fornicators
make love in my bed – shame on you, you murderer;
you took my wife, my home –and can’t even afford
to buy a new bed;
and you even use the condoms I left in the wardrobe...
Heee! Heee! Hooooooo…..
but I’ll be back every time the two of you close each other
like two palms raised in prayer ;
and I’ll pull the mosquito net down a bit and peer in
to see the two of you naked in bed
and I’ve got a bony tongue
long enough to lick the both of you!-
and to see me with my horrendous eyeballs
your phallus will shrink immediately;
and that woman, my former wife and eternal betrayer,
who mixed poison into my rice and shrimps
- every time she sees me, in her shock and fear
she’ll **** you out of bed, every time for sure...
Heee! Heee! Hooooo….
Well, Hello, lovebirds…making love are we?
Heee! Heee! Hooooooo…..
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 1:11 AM UTC
Every brush is a first as a spark to a fire;
though the ashes still fall from limb and leaf,
each blaze sizzles an original melody:
forever unique and soulfully sole.
A delicate comfort envelopes me,
wreathing my pieces with a gentle autumn breeze,
mending me whole when I was never broken.
Her ambiance dances as rays of shattered moonlight,
slipping beneath a sky of the arctic dawn.
She gathers my fragments,
even when they had never been chipped away.
I lay unprotected, yet entirely safe.
She bends until the space separating us is airless with tender yearning.
I taste a thin sea-foam of maple sugar.
Dyspnoea remains fluid in our slumberous desire.
When I close my eyes, submitting to the quiet rush,
I am welcomed by an island universe.
Stardust spirals as the cosmos beams above our heads.
A sylvan petrichor swirls about the fall
as I am consumed with pure euphoria.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
in a dark of frenzy it boils up inside
until summarily and inexplicably
see the colour between brown and blue
more than see it, immerse myself in it
swimming slowly in its clouds
see the colour between brown and blue
everywhere votive candles light
the colour between brown and blue
with slender tapers that touch a life
any life, your life
casting strange shadows, loose shadows
between the colour of brown and blue
children swarm, children with bright white
starvation hair, children with hands
like small worn mittens
who raise red swarms in hot worn out
death laden dust
dust that cauterizes the nostrils
with the stench of penurious insanity
the colour between brown and blue
that inveigles a purchase of flies
bottle blue, black blue, green blue,
swarming blue, swirling whirling blue
a black and blue confetti of flies
then the sudden zero of the
colour between brown and blue
hair raising, command faith
willed, willing, mumbling, murmuring
the excitement of writing between
the colour of brown and blue
trees shake and tremble
words regurgitate themselves like hot
food, the bark, write
now fully electrically charged
seized by the colour between brown and blue
forget everything else, write, write more, more, write
trembling with sudden shudders of merciless
vowels, madness penurious pencil
moves across, demanding paper
pushing worn words, worthy words whittled by use
words not yet written, words of wonder
oh what words
beautiful, baffling,baleful, words
with beastly beatitudes, words that conjure the mind
words between brown and blue
that leave you skinny like a stray dog
words so demanding leave you shut up in an
airless abattoir of high energy and low residue
the colour between brown and blue
where everywhere is everywhere else
touched by the flames of the colour between brown and blue
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
I am a white, Jewish girl from Florida.
Hit me.
Hit me with your white girl jokes,
Your Jewish American Princess stereotypes.
I will giggle and squeal right along with you.
Because yeah,
I do order white chocolate mocha frappuchinos from Starbucks,
I Instagram pictures of my nails,
I take selfies, whiten my teeth, straighten my hair,
Shop at Forever21 and drink Naked Juice like it is my job.
Yeah, my daddy buys me things,
I don’t pay for my data plan,
There’s no way in hell I would drive a sedan,
I wear Nike shorts and avoid any nearby cameraman,
And let me tell you, I love jamming out to old school Britney Spears.
Hit me one more time, because none of that means I am any less intelligent,
Any less diligent,
Any less likely to face judgment
Than any other slice of diversity around me –
I am a white, Jewish girl
My nose is not its own cartoon,
I eat bagels (but I absolutely hate lox),
I’m not tan or even the least bit tinted,
And god knows I don’t wear Uggs.
Tell me I need to get married young,
Major in business,
Wear clothes that leave me airless,
Get some of that European gracefulness,
But don’t tell me I’m dumb.
Don’t tell me I’m not thoughtful.
I’m a white girl.
Take a glance at my resourcefulness,
Understand my goals of being ambitious,
Get rid of your own stereotype-inducing cockiness,
And notice me in all of my flawlessness.
Because I am a white girl,
And I am unique, strong, inventive,
Empowered, passionate, adventurous,
Indomitable, unbeatable.
I am an individual –
Not part of some whole that you put me in to stabilize your mold,
Not the example of a societally scatterbrained ***** meant to be your centerfold,
Not a previously worn-out piece of clothing thrown to the gutter unsold,
Rather a human being of my own rules and my own morals
A human being with ideas and intelligence and power,
A white, Jewish girl,
A person.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
Women are born with heavy feathered wings
Hands that hide starlit craters
Celestially they spin in infinity and find each other
Stroking the softness, in awe at the wonder of the unashamed mystique
That perpetuates newly hatched faces
A world without the incessant need for reassurance
Which towers intimidatingly over the forest border
Small ordinances that keep themselves airless
No longer striving for the greater force of flight
Clipping away their feathers with garden shears, hosing down the blood
Tuscan architecture abandoned countless ages ago
Ancient in idea and aesthetic
I’ve wandered many miles to reach such exotic visions that have been dead for so long
The heads of kings lined up on the edge of a waterfall
Their bodies still holding onto the swords they clipped their wings with long ago
A little further, a river emerges and spills cold water from the azimuth of God
There was a communicator present at the time of cleansing, unbeknownst to me
To accept ones sins is to be cleansed of them, don’t you agree?
He asked this with shaking shoulders, his robes unraveling to reveal the scars on his chest
One for each pectoralis
I looked away in tragedy
I enter the wooden gate, into the Macedonian fortresses of old
My torso has been replaced with a harp, which I feel these princes pluck so sensitively
I hear the timber echo throughout my chest and vibrate in my throat
My back has merged without consent to a beast that bends backwards
The harp strings have been torn
I am now mute
Raising the weary head of the sleeping dog and the sleeping disdain
I slept in an isolated piece of land untouched by human hands
And sank into the forest floor
In which the grass and all living creatures decided I had left the physical form
My eternal resting place
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 5:54 PM UTC
In the searing airless midsummer-
Clockwork morning rewinds
cobalt into a bleeding orange yolk dripping across
the canvas of the world.
Sky, turn the colour of dreams. Heart, turn the colour of love-
I’m posed over a skyscraper
Because I wanted to touch the stars. Because I wanted to touch you.
There’s a beauty found in the smallest spaces
Gaps in your heartbeat, getting your toothbrush mixed with mine
Honey-lemon on my tongue
So maybe you loved me, but not in a way I comprehended
I’m thinking of your lips, your eyes
and the way you said goodbye-
The word wrapped around your tongue like a prayer.
Pink bleeds into violet and it looks like the 5 a.m. Berlin skyline
might tear itself apart, like a heart bursting or a car crash.
So it’s dawn. So I’m inconsolable.
And if the angel sun sets,
then so be it.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC
Muck bit her ivory nightgown, as if earth hungering
after her...the delicate collapse of a napkin,she.
Hours poured atop her head, her shaggy, silvery
mane suspended--its reluctant bounce captured
at midpoint...as a spiderweb under ultraviolet light.
Desert sands lost in contemplation, reminiscent of
her flesh--divulge her core as she sleeps in a
fetal position.
Her body spasms awkwardly...its will visibly slowed
from initial motion.
As the paralysis experienced by prey amid the astral
annals of nightmares.
She'll rise into that shine, wonder at the nightmare's
symbology...talk to her garden--whilst thinking of her
time to come.
Silkworm breached the parcel
of time, its cocooned inertia
coarsed through the opalescent
eye of God to Godhood.
Of time's ruination redeemed
in a solitary work...cupped
airless the unbridled form of
a trapezist spent itself.
Opened and closed somersaults
atripped a piece of said space...
nothingness regenerated to
move, to take step of itself.
A self-argumentative abstraction
glowed...undid its silken flag--
firmly planted in an undiscovered
region...her time come.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
herein lies common fault - loosely hanging on a speculative conjecture
than exact detail.
mind's prison- asylum.
you go in to see furtive showcases
of the many names walking without
faces. you went in without invitation. only or abstract solicitation.
there is something that sinks
deeper than marrow, blows colder than December winnow, something that burgeons beyond naked sense.
inside this lair,
conflated you are with bent question marks to their distinct, curved smallnesses. you peek into the window of my eyes and inside this airless vault, we are both
heavy with staring at each other
dripping and bare-all, yet
this rigmarole of eyes contain
their visceral silences still.
i stripped them all of their voices
and they only look at each other
with onerous eyes, pondering
about their places, answerless
and just whirling in capacitous space --
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 3:50 AM UTC
At least three times a week
Thumps, bangs, a loud crash,
Doors slamming, metallic echoes,
Bumps, thuds, sharp edges, smash
I hear shouting, muffled, no words,
His voice booms and beats against the walls.
Hushed stillness after, as i wait to hear him slam out
Clattering feet on the stair to the street
Airless, exhausted relief as they fade.
Everything echoes in empty impersonal corridors
Magnolia walls, polished floors, plain blank doors.
The room behind one containing locked fear and silence.
I sense it there
Hear it breath through the walls
It enters my room, far more than the noise
A pounding, held in fear
So loud that it keeps me awake
As I listen, long after.
Next morning, so aware of silence,
When I hear a sound near my door
I jump, as alert as a hunted animal.
I hear her heart clench
So linked to this stranger by sounds
Though I have never imagined her face
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
Derail your anxious train of thought
Open your inner spirit
And enter the dream corridor
like a leaf from a tree in its dying season
Coma come quiet
Airless linger delight
Sacrificial pasts
give you the power
to leave places
The world won't get better
but you will
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 2:30 PM UTC
Cocoon suspended ‘neath a branch,
Out of harmer’s range;
Churning in tight quarters then,
Awaiting for the change.
A cast she’d spun with great detail,
To blend into the scene;
Remain innocuous, choosing plain,
To spend such days serene.
This sanctuary has terms of time;
Yet flippant so, of sight;
Blinded by the darkness kept,
May only dream of flight.
There, outside this nurturing crypt,
Lies futures yet untold;
Exploring freedom, airless hours,
As wings will then unfold.
Alterations to her inner form
Complete in all detail;
While oblivious to worlds unknown--
Mem’ries without a trail.
As perforations tear a fold,
In which she will embark,
To crystal, glowing cast of moon
Within this evening, dark;
She wrestles to uncurl her girth
And wingspan so anew;
That seems so awkward, foreign and
Has converted different hue.
Now perched upon her drying bed,
She fans while instincts try
To capture sens’ry explosions
That lay to foundling’s eyes.
Beyond the glen, a spot she sees;
A single glowing blur.
Just then each tree bends toward one side,
As breaths sweep under her.
Weightless, floating, movement new,
She tests her longer arms,
That reach, manipulating wind,
Should quivers strike alarm.
The lure of the eerie glow,
Possess investigation,
As closer toward the light she flies,
Embraced with consternation.
Near collision with the beacon,
She’s halted in mid-air;
Translucent strings of sticky form,
She didn’t see, were there.
She wrestles, tries to free herself,
While a shadow looming near
Smiles with contentment of
His cunning craft of snare.
Slowly he approaches while
She looks to see his eyes,
So vacant of emotive flush,
With fear she starts to cry.
The octo-legged creature then,
Inserts his poisoned quill,
As venom circulates her life,
He waits until she’s still.
Then coils her in silky thread,
While dancing ‘bout his room.
Tho’ this is of his own design,
She returns, inside cocoon.
As thoughts of life, such brevity,
Released of any pain.
She closes youthful eyes at last,
And dreams of flight again.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 6:23 AM UTC
It was the first gift he ever gave her,
buying it for five five francs in the Galeries
in pre-war Paris. It was stifling.
A starless drought made the nights stormy.
They stayed in the city for the summer.
The met in cafes. She was always early.
He was late. That evening he was later.
They wrapped the fan. He looked at his watch.
She looked down the Boulevard des Capucines.
She ordered more coffee. She stood up.
The streets were emptying. The heat was killing.
She thought the distance smelled of rain and lightning.
These are wild roses, appliqued on silk by hand,
darkly picked, stitched boldly, quickly.
The rest is tortoiseshell and has the reticent clear patience
of its element. It is
a worn-out, underwater bullion and it keeps,
even now, an inference of its violation.
The lace is overcast as if the weather
it opened for and offset had entered it.
The past is an empty cafe terrace.
An airless dusk before thunder. A man running.
And no way to know what happened then—
none at all—unless ,of course, you improvise:
The blackbird on this first sultry morning,
in summer, finding buds, worms, fruit,
feels the heat. Suddenly she puts out her wing—
the whole, full, flirtatious span of it.
2.5k
Airless beauty seen
Unimaginable void
Stars hypnotic view.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
Poets are word canaries
prepared to die in dark, airless places.
Poets are sharp sirens
alert, alarmed and warning of the firestorm.
Poets can read
tree bark calligraphy of knots and scars.
Poets decipher codes
and shrewd puzzles, bold and enigmatic.
Poets ignore the talk of Angels
their prophecies and broken promises
Poets turn over Tarot cards
lay out rune stones, fearless of the future.
Poets steer clear
of treasure, jewels and golden ingots.
Poets climb ladders
and stairways cut in rock and stone.
Poets can see beyond
apple blossom, lilac blooms and dead lilies.
Poets find the past
in patterns of stars and the orbit of comets.
Poets lick salt
relishing the wounds and tears.
Poets throw life-belts
wreaths onto empty oceans.
Poets split existence
into life and death with nothing between.
Poets sift ashes
and sand for the rough edges of infinity.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
Stress is living life in a self-inflating balloon
From airless to full is the excitement in life
Increases in pressure is a tension of colour
Stress filled is not stressful in this party of life
With survival a knack of avoiding sharp objects
And where excessive inflation will inevitably
Cause an instant deflation in very small pieces
Of the dreams and goals which are life today
And like Humpty in pieces these cannot
Be easily put back together again.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
How does the moon wax and wane?
Who wrote this recipe, what is their name?
A legendary greek god or goddess,
Shaping the constellations around this lunar bodess?
Creating the mysterious opaque hue,
Is the sun's light, golden and fierce to lovely and blue,
The unique and silent craters and hills,
Brought into existence by lazy asteroids who take a spill,
The moon's fine white pixie dust,
Contributed by comets drawn near with lust,
Its spidery web of fear and adventure that draws us near,
Is woven of used up dreams leaked out of the creatives' ears,
Here are some great wise rocks,
Dumped from a bottomless black hole's treasure box,
Its stately mountains are sweetly refined,
By the artistic alien's touch from another time,
And the reverberating echoes of the valleys, regal as Egyptian tombs,
A secret ingredient: vibrations of the transcendal omnipresent omniscient aum,
The cold still and airless atmosphere,
Was perfectly designed by departed souls with a wish to persevere,
For the moon's body, they borrowed a part of earth,
Promising a silent and knowing angel to guard it after its birth,
And the simple motion itself, the motion that makes the creature wax and wane,
is made of the tireless energy known as Yin and Yang.
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 10:13 PM UTC
a human tool, a drawing pencil, shedding snakeskin cells as
lead from no. 2 pencil
am **** and blood, skin and hairless,
all-to-come-to-go,
return retuned, at their own chosen speed,
gen of regeneration of disrupted oils and heavenly blessings,
morning cracks and orifices, filling and emptying obediently,
to the tidings of the grieving gravity of my moon’s decisions
that govern the lunatic cycle
you may kiss me with all your heart unto a robust welcoming,
scorn with spittle and deem unfit,
I know the difference and it is inconsequential
see me as combustible or flat, airless and empty,
as a new or a two day old leaking birthday balloon, or a haiku
that makes the reader gasp for the reasoning for breathing
think of me as a meme who responds to the touch of
your nippled forefinger, but my powers are unlisted,
therefore unlimited
for I am neither cyber or cypher though aesthetically they
appear as parts of my humanity, a human machine
forever reprogramming to new stimuli sensating,
the temperature of your breath, the many odors of you
as inputs that bear newborn children notions in
my chested gas chambers, the belligerent bellum bellies of my brain
my digital describe in thousands of computers do hide,
but to comprehend the interacting calculations that are
my constancy and my inconsistencies, you must make a tour
if you are awake between midnight and dawn when from
wells the visions, the fluids - the words are drawn
they, the residuals of a man’s *********** with
other humans, kin akin, and the thriving discourse between l,
man and parental gods of invisible powers, that offers insanity
as a viable solution, to cracking the codex human DNA
in the vial labelled Medusa
Who else?
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
My companion has no clothes to speak of -
no odours, no form, only shape from being
born from flat ground - transparent in the round;
an open guide that pulls you from the inside
to a new plane not seen before - straight
thro' any solid door; where is this place
I've been escorted to? Encouraged and
gently led a long way above my head
seems familiar a a long time ago - the pace
of life here is very slow, timeless
airless, a pale hue - my Fair Isle pullover
must be a clue; seem smaller now
everyone taller just as ghostly friends dance
It appears that I've been given a second chance
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
I never met the Mediterranean neither
His bride’s land nor their aquiline nose
I saw them as shifting images
Like a pair of oily eels.
They came with the waves tumbling-
Forward from few days journey
There was no wave of anger, only an
Insecure spring of a shell-less snail.
I cannot disremember the salinity,
The stretched little boy on its shores,
Floating pieces of lost hope
And the airless nights that followed.
Dear Mediterranean, there are
Millions out there, distant kin
I don’t want those dead on rectangular-
Cement slabs, bring them alive!
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
If I should fall a thousand steps into your arms,
will they not wait? For I
let not Cassiopeia move beyond her throne
to encroach my bed.
Let gravity
seek its master upon my feet
and warm itself in my slippers,
carry me through curtains
and clouds of deceit to reach a haloed moon
in an airless night. If I
should wait a thousand years for a single step into your arms,
will they not open? For I
let wide the gates and fiery the oil
to relinquish the kingdom and forge
against the current into the quiet distance.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
The wood was beneath, warped
With age, as the worms crept
Falling into the gapping chasm
Of petrified air. Ingested upon
Shattered bone, was the ragged
Wanting beneath.
The stone was polished, kept
As if newly left. Never was
Their needing for never were
Clothes tattered, they dined
Upon pigeon heart and entails
Of pedigree cat.
The Woman, of both below and
Above, vested wording to the
Ever breaking of parched skin and
Bone.
Those of wood and worm, clawing
Ascending through dirt, what was
Left of flesh pealed upon roots and
Stone, now only ragged cloth and
***** bone.
Why must we of the earth suffer,
The indignity of dirt while those
Above treated differently, we are
the same are we not, death is
Universal rot.
Then those of marble spoke up,
You are not like us for we are of
Death but we are of flesh,
Parched but whole, we are of
The clean, while you are of
Earth festering and rot.
"Silence"
"Still your airless voices"
"Each has a valid point"
"But my children of decay let me explain"
My children of earth you exhume
Yourselves each day, this shows
Strength for the journey you take,
Hardening you resolve.
You are neither filth or below,
Your strength is what others
Should look up to, you are pure
Of the mortal coils of flesh you
Are flawless in death.
My children of stone, what can
Be said, you cling to life, but
That time has pasted, you
Linger upon flesh that is but
a moment from dust.
Time in earth has made your
Brothers and Sisters strong,
While yours are weakened
The weaknesses of above, my
Commands are simple their
Must never be two, death is
Singular we decay as one.
What was pasted, those of marble
Stripped of parched decadence,
They were now pure as those below.
Feast as others on that which crawls
Nourished by mother earth.
The woman of bone, wood and stone,
Was a fair keeper and the only
Marble that graced was that which
Named those who slept below,
They were pure of mortal coils
They where the dead of bone.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC