"dirtless" poems
My mind should strive if it claim the sole cure
To eternal joy for which I am due.
Though others prefer I give in the lure
My claim won't for 'tis foolish to be few.
To stay thus, would render only suffrage,
Though not a matter whilst I've my good teas.
Should my tourniquet no more bandage,
'T means it must hath be infested of fleas.
Thus I must claim the illness in form same
For though indeed I might cure my soul, I can ******
How shall my heart dirtless be; it hath blame!
The heat serves simply to aid this girder.
For that sole moment, I am that healing
Which can only be seen with fine loathing.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 7:37 AM UTC
A dirtless ditch,
you tongue the plains
and stretch numb arms
in sleeves of ink.
Eroding stone
and carmine vines
claw into shoulders
and dry eyes.
Please heed my words
escape artist.
I would not lie
on withered leaves.
With rope and wall
you cannot climb
so high to fall
and deaden nerves.
Hands tingle now,
needles alive
like clouds and slate
that built the skies.
Throat thresh and whine
at coal-charred mouth
while legs do shine
angelic fright.
Wolves prowl the grounds
to kiss the cheeks
of those they yearn
to eat but twice.
A need for none
is apex sin
that Love does not,
with ease, forgive.
Look up to sky
with smirk alight,
and stretch your arms
so wide.
A stray dog's brow
shows only strength.
There is much hope
for you.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
Is it just a loose porch board
that creaks just outside my door?
Is it just the howling wind
that creaks outside and nothing more?
Can I trust these sweat-soaked sheets
to keep a midnight prowler at bay?
Can I trust my frozen feet
to safely carry me away?
Is my room, cloaked in gloom,
inhabited by solely me?
Light, I assume, would only exhume
the tenants of my dirtless tomb.
I shall not be prey, I then decide,
I shall not fall to just any beast!
I'm not a feast... not their's at least...
The worms... perhaps, but them I don't mind.
"You're not getting me!" I scream,
I grab the the gun and run to the shed.
I turn and bolt the door and my hands
shake as I load an ounce of lead.
"I'm not yours to have!" I cry
My vision now becoming blurred
click
"It is I who shall have the final word!"
Throughout an empty forest, a single shot is heard.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC