Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sia Jane Nov 2014
Insomnia,
Once again we meet,
I've grown accustomed to your
Nightly *******,
A dangerous liaison in
Those early hours.

It's 5 o'clock in the morning
I'm tired worn withdrawn
The monotony of daily embargoes
Assaults on a mind.

So tainted with desire
Laying beside me, skin as pale
As ghost walkers of the night.

Unheard, betrayal forms
A multitude of symbolic reasoning
Classical mixtures of
The abstract mystical undertones
And tangible fears grounding selves
Burrowing deeper below the surface.

Māra is beside me, smiling
Oh how I wish I could
Get her to see
That I'm not seeking attention
I'm merely seeking redemption.

Her demonic shadow need not
Accompany me
Stealing hours of wakeful sleep
I'm no lover of hers anymore.

Insomnia,
I'm tired of this dangerous liaison,
I want freeing.

© Sia Jane
I only just found this! I'd typed it up on my phone when I couldn't sleep. And forgot! So here's another today :)
Elliott G May 2021
Sickness, death, disease,
rats, bugs, ***** fleas;
Royal knights at ease,
not trying to appease
the masses anymore
as bodies amass on the floor.

Stomping down the corridor,
black-gowned conquistador
in court known as le docteur.
Majestically pointed beak,
leather satchel, utensils squeak
as one two three and four
the man takes to the floor-
And Waltz!

Clack the Castle door.
The wicker-faced figure
grows taller, grows bigger,
and one goes to figure
who first pulls the trigger
And Clasp!
Hands come together as one
step by step, step on the gown
almost trip and fall down,
white as silk and black as dawn;
A smirk met with a frown.

Endless days, deadly gaze
from beyond the red-glass eyes:
A mosaic from the skies
as God's son met his demise,
idolized by commonfolk,
glass sculptures embedded into walls.

The ******* of angels,
interlacing strangers;
masked visage from nature
in the form of bustling bees
busy beguiling Byzantine baronesses,
backstabbing brides, burning bioessence,
*******, burdens, nature's reconnaissance.
Tiny creatures nestled into wooden crates,
by the hands of humans' race;
the beekeepers their only living grace.

The two figures intertwined
Ying-yang dancing under starlight
Snow-white and the seven plagues
dressed in crystal, black parade.

The court jester coughs and gargles,
the monarchs paint the floors with blood,
as the silk road lifts embargoes;
a thousand-year old flood
of plague-infested spices,
time to roll the dices,
is it rats or mices,
who really cares,
everyone's already dead.
Sia Jane Jan 2015
Insomnia,
Once again we meet, I've grown accustomed to your nightly *******; a dangerous liaison in those early hours.
It's 5 o'clock in the morning, I'm tired
worn
withdrawn
the monotony of daily embargoes; assaults on my mind.

Insomnia,
You're beside me now smiling, so tainted with desire, laying beside me; skin as pale as ghost walkers of the night.
Your demonic shadow need not accompany me, stealing hours of wakeful sleep.
You're no lover to me.

"Don't you see me," you smirk.
"Of course I do," I retort.

You begin to justle with rage, splashed sanguine, green with envy. Toiled & troubled; you know day is breaking, you fear the light.

"I missed you last..." you pause...
"Oh,  you're going to give me the silent treatment? Okay, I'll just answer for you... 'I always miss my baby, every night you're absent, I know I can't live without you'.."

I turn away, tears in my eyes...

sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep

Insomnia,
You're my demon of the night. I fear how far you will bring me to my knees; begging on another star - already dead no dreams will become - for strength, hope, love.

Insomnia,
I call you my dangerous liaison, I still cling to you -
friend & foe
absent lover
lost addiction...

You keep me so deep,
                                      in love with you.

© Sia Jane
Seldom do we wonder
At our own defenses
When lies are spreading
You run for cover of your fences
Underneath roofs and ceilings
You speak of the One
Who knows all your secret dealings
In the fire and the snow
The rainbow often turns yellow
Our ancestors dance on the edge of a needle
Blessing the fragments of your incarcerated heart
Imprisoned impermanence
Life is a lesson
Drunk on gypsum and water
You repeat this guttural embargo
Can we dance
Or do we follow
Grief is the missing piece in your puzzle
Saltwater runs down your face
I erase the razor’s path
Hundreds of fireflies insist you are their lover
In the diamond’s eye you become another
Sultry siren
Tumultuous teenagers breathe light and fire
Listen to the river going underneath your houses
Remove your clothes and wander in your underwear
With lungs of fire
You tread toward the tower
If you are stubborn enough
You may one day be discovered
Carlo C Gomez Jul 2022
What on Earth
took you? Do we dare land?

A lark of descension. An aborted beginning.
Moon trills.

Captain is dead
at the controls.
Mother gives birth in the airlock.

Trouble in the passageways.
A struggle to name it.
A drink before eclipse.
All that's wrong with the world
sounds like harmonium in the (wishing) well.

First flight over Hölderlin's Archipelago,
creating new and stranger versions
in the sandclouds.
So this is
Tharsis Rise?
Life without a trace.

Non-terrestrial Martian field.
Halcyon flowering seas. A rock with no trees,
no urban hopes.

Yet, the whole universe inside
wants to be touched.
I love you in zero gravity,
pushing tender buttons.
*** as solution.
Moon trills.

A kiss of atmosphere.
This alien womb.
Those android embargoes.
Our children are born echoes of astronauts.
Lunar schedules
their first words.

There's a lightspeed sensibility
to this type of marriage and parenting:
no leaving the hub,
no exit procedure.

The Sol they sing
is a harm hymn,
moon trills,
subject to the ladder and the weight of breath
this outside Earth.

But I love you in the veil of a twilight moon.

We're monuments
burned into moments.
Moments without a beyond.
Geof Spavins Sep 14
Standing with Marshal Gebbie

No trumpet sounds.  
No banner bleeds.  
Just the quiet hum  
of satellites watching  
what we dare not name.

Power does not sleep,
it drips  
from trade routes,  
from whispered sanctions,  
from the tremble  
of a diplomat’s hand  
hovering over the red phone.

We are not at war,  
but we rehearse it  
in algorithms,  
in tariffs,  
in the way maps  
shrink and swell  
without consent.

The empire is hungover,  
but still it walks,
barefoot through proxy fields,  
cloaked in plausible deniability.

And we,  
the breathers between borders,  
write poems  
on the backs of embargoes,  
sing lullabies  
in contested airspace,  
and pray  
that silence  
is not mistaken  
for surrender.

— The End —