"cinderous" poems
Ignite the forecourt - shroud it in smoke,
blazen the grasses and let fires stoke,
ashen our ocean - try strangle my throat.
Yet I'm un-charred,
fire be my cloak.
Cinderous lashes boil form from the sky,
sooten the beast mocking grievous its smile,
charred lie the echo of places worthwhile.
Still I'm unscathed,
none yet defiled.
Scorch of the essence and drain the air lame,
infernal ravages torch all they've lain,
engulf their waters - stricken the rain.
None-yet I burn,
donning each flame.
Sweltering heart guiding palm of the sun,
nova my spirit let darkest nights shun,
beacon my body through despair I come.
Let me rage blinding,
everbright one,
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 10:39 AM UTC
I hold this in the creases of my palms;
The book of a creature who
eats the glittering horns of a devil.
I’ve witnessed the trees
weep where she will rest.
I’ve watched the stars
cascade from the sky
and rupture into her eyes
the morning she was born;
The same hour morning gave birth
to a sea of her whispering fragrance.
The moon is where she folds
and envelopes the secrets of a prayer .
And we all will wait,
We all will wait
Where she takes her ***** and breath.
Cities ablaze and words ignite.
From underneath wounded heels
the world weaves a shrill tremble.
Fate twists and collides like
an eclipse shackling death.
And her flesh, her flesh is where the
violent pomegranates erupt nectarous words
Of forbidden languages,
Silent soliloquies of poetry
echo from between the arches of the
gothic cathedrals carved into her deathly collarbones.
Her breath melts the blood of man
For she is what holds the sun
And teems forth the spring of truth
From beneath the land of cinderous lies,
Where the starving incubi fornicate
And sit heavy upon the hissing
nightmares of beautiful women.
Men helplessly comply to the
catharsis in her brief passing.
The mouths of women bleed
and spines erode to her paralyzing current.
There are those who wish to tear her poetic guts
and wear them as victory crowns and armored robes
Those who dream of bathing in their triumph of her death
And those who desire to drain the mysteries of her sky
A sky of roses made of stars
A sky of birthing constellations
A sky of dawn goddesses
I wish for this to rotate vagrant and mangle
The ill hearts who wish to rip
heavens body in one syllable.
-Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC