"fastens" poems
The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.
Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!
Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.
In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.
You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!
It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.
Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!
In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!
I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.
Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.
Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.
There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.
Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!
How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.
Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.
Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.
Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.
And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.
This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!
Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!
From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.
You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.
Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.
The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.
Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.
Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.
It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
14.2k
The song is gone; the dance
is secret with the dancers in the earth,
the ritual useless, and the tribal story
lost in an alien tale.
Only the grass stands up
to mark the dancing-ring; the apple-gums
posture and mime a past corroboree,
murmur a broken chant.
The hunter is gone; the spear
is splintered underground; the painted bodies
a dream the world breathed sleeping and forgot.
The nomad feet are still.
Only the rider's heart
halts at a sightless shadow, an unsaid word
that fastens in the blood of the ancient curse,
the fear as old as Cain.
6.8k
I have come, alas, to the great circle of shadow,
to the short day and to the whitening hills,
when the colour is all lost from the grass,
though my desire will not lose its green,
so rooted is it in this hardest stone,
that speaks and feels as though it were a woman.
And likewise this heaven-born woman
stays frozen, like the snow in shadow,
and is unmoved, or moved like a stone,
by the sweet season that warms all the hills,
and makes them alter from pure white to green,
so as to clothe them with the flowers and grass.
When her head wears a crown of grass
she draws the mind from any other woman,
because she blends her gold hair with the green
so well that Amor lingers in their shadow,
he who fastens me in these low hills,
more certainly than lime fastens stone.
Her beauty has more virtue than rare stone.
The wound she gives cannot be healed with grass,
since I have travelled, through the plains and hills,
to find my release from such a woman,
yet from her light had never a shadow
thrown on me, by hill, wall, or leaves’ green.
I have seen her walk all dressed in green,
so formed she would have sparked love in a stone,
that love I bear for her very shadow,
so that I wished her, in those fields of grass,
as much in love as ever yet was woman,
closed around by all the highest hills.
The rivers will flow upwards to the hills
before this wood, that is so soft and green,
takes fire, as might ever lovely woman,
for me, who would choose to sleep on stone,
all my life, and go eating grass,
only to gaze at where her clothes cast shadow.
Whenever the hills cast blackest shadow,
with her sweet green, the lovely woman
hides it, as a man hides stone in grass.
3.1k
1.
Each of us like you
has died once,
has passed through drift of wood-leaves,
cracked and bent
and tortured and unbent
in the winter-frost,
the burnt into gold points,
lighted afresh,
crisp amber, scales of gold-leaf,
gold turned and re-welded
in the sun;
each of us like you
has died once,
each of us has crossed an old wood-path
and found the winter-leaves
so golden in the sun-fire
that even the live wood-flowers
were dark.
2.
Not the gold on the temple-front
where you stand
is as gold as this,
not the gold that fastens your sandals,
nor thee gold reft
through your chiselled locks,
is as gold as this last year's leaf,
not all the gold hammered and wrought
and beaten
on your lover's face.
brow and bare breast
is as golden as this:
each of us like you
has died once,
each of us like you
stands apart, like you
fit to be worshipped.
3k
The autumn winds ***** her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.
By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamp post.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.
Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.
As the summer teases, she writhes Lolita-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she ****
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.
Oct 7, 2020
Oct 7, 2020 at 10:53 AM UTC
skin to skin i lure you in,
rip you apart from limb to limb
in the deepest shadows
oh the almighty,
you don't know
i lurk behind every corner,
impatiently trying to watch,
your sight as always a catch
i thump and drag along
a bag to carry, for you to last
in dark fantasy i taste your flesh
your blood drips and drops,
but you stay fresh
i store pieces of your skin for later,
stirring your meat to neat batter
your bones do break
but your heart wont shatter
pure lust glides through my fingers,
touching up your moveless figure
i yearn in obsession, in dreams it lingers
in light you shimmer, brighter as ever
moonlights kiss caresses your body,
its getting thinner
your pulse fastens each push i make,
you will get better
fallen apart, i sew you back together,
pins and needles push through you like softest butter
pray, pray and cry, feed me your tears
show me more,
show me, show me.
in despair, i waited and caught you
wretched and ruined,
now you loathe me.
i tell you,
i’ll wear your teeth on a necklace,
your eyes will see salvation
for you are the prettiest you have ever been,
one last rest before i begin
how redeeming, as in death to still be not lost in darkness,
how fortunate to live inside me,
finally you found the meaning of life,
you have been searching, i know.
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 9:17 PM UTC
"The past is a bucket of ashes."
1
THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.
2
The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
3
It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got
a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women
to warble: We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened
... and the only listeners left now
... are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
And there are black crows
crying, "Caw, caw,"
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
4
The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.
And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.
2.4k
as you draw the value of rivers
and the fickle nature of clouds
and the real gift of sacrifice
from my favorite book,
i gaze down at the ghostly veins
in this loving cabbage palm,
and wonder how brown ale and stew
is the height of the day
and when it's enough
and how.
*********************
by a journey north
i make all my old feelings
warm and alert
i remember supposing
my love was covered in frost
at the foot of my favorite spruce trees
gathering pins and needles
i know i fall for those of no sitting
and those spurned by silent blessings
my deepest vaults have safe spots-
difficult to find-
easy to alight-
surprised when beheld-
all chambers listen.
the only thing keeping me fast
is that car and those country roads
this fastens me to your existence
as i note your remarkable motion to
the growing world,
nourishing religion,
and your experienced hands
how does a straightaway of field
bring me to this loss?
the car is the only, holding me fast
to my hopes battling inevitable sadness
towards the unknown glides of our paths
i run far ahead
because i want to see this future
in front
moving past
falling back
*************************
even over few solemn days
i want to know how you could leave me here
wrapped in ribbons of resplendent desire
and worried stutters
the only unusuality about your silence
is its absence
(likely misunderstood)
and such an absense is not voiceless -
simply careless no-speak -
neither sound nor kind listening
is present in this kind of brooding
where are the flowing rivers of your words
if not through the dark caverns in me?
who else has been trading softness with you?
more often have i gripped the hard glass,
the steering wheel,
the stiff drink.
was there a glimpse into shocked discontent
granting you sudden power to retract
from all my easy benevolence?
the trouble is this -
though you've been sweetly resistant,
i've never professed hot beckoning until now
********************************
when i turn into the sweetness of sick sheets
and your sleeping hands
i breathe in all the dew on your chest
and smile
realizing
i'm the idiot
waiting
*********************************
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 10:52 AM UTC
Time seems slow when young minds play
Time feels long as young minds age
Time seems fast when old minds slave
Time feels short as old minds age
Time goes on and ignores old pain
Time looks out for no one and let's no one stay
Time corrupts young minds and fastens change
Time let's the poor die young and let's the rich die of old age
Time is infinite or so they say
Do you think time will come to an end one day?
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 9:17 PM UTC
How sad the trees be
when winter comes as fall leaves
and the flowers die
What consolation
is Venus’s forsaken
yielding spring to rise?
For once staring death,
summer fastens by a breath
and the flowers die
Yet made to know doom,
trees tither the chance to bloom
yielding spring to rise
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 4:07 PM UTC
love
definition 1, noun
an intense feeling of deep affection.
but that does not describe
the way my body is littered
with goosebumps at the
slightest hint of your touch
love
definition 2, noun
a person or thing that one loves.
but that does not describe
the twinkle i see in your eyes
when you smile back at me
love
definition three, verb
feel a deep romantic or ****** attachment to (someone).
but that does not describe
how easily i long to be
in your arms seconds after
you walk out the door
love
definition four, human
the way your hand
fastens to mine when
i say goodnight
the way you make the blood
rush through my body
and to my head
that is love
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
For the Chipmunk in My Yard
By Robert Gibb
I think he knows I’m alive, having come down
The three steps of the back porch
And given me a good once over. All afternoon
He’s been moving back and forth,
Gathering odd bits of walnut shells and twigs,
While all about him the great fields tumble
To the blades of the thresher. He’s lucky
To be where he is, wild with all that happens.
He’s lucky he’s not one of the shadows
Living in the blond heart of the wheat.
This autumn when trees bolt, dark with the fires
Of starlight, he’ll curl among their roots,
Wanting nothing but the slow burn of matter
On which he fastens like a small, brown flame.
From What the Heart Can Bear by Robert Gibb. Poem copyright ©2009 by Robert Gibb. Reprinted by permission of the author and Autumn House Press.
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Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 10:27 AM UTC
Behold
As a fly does
She swiftly escapes
The fingertips
Of her old friend
Death
Over and over again
All he wants
Is a handshake
A “fair game”, a gentle goodbye
But she is quick
To run
Door closed behind
Tightly
Thoughts shut within
Softly
Exotically neurotic
Behold!
They say
She is the fox
Too sly
To be caught
Too cunning
To be trusted
And she has lusted
She has lusted
She has lusted
They say
Like an alchemist
She eats tar
And regurgitates
Sweet glittering gold
To the people
Laying roads
Behold!
They say
She is the silent, stalking menace
The shadow in the corner
Of your childhood bedroom
She lurks and lingers
She fastens her fingers
Into unsuspecting hearts
She is no darkness, no
She is the holder of light
In the mouths of drunks
They praise her
For all that she has overcome
All that she has undone
From what they have done
And what she has become
A fang toothed light switch
They praise her
Behold!
They say
A prodigy of protest
She builds her bones
In restless legs
In limp, loose arms
In a hoarder managed head
And a stale, vacant heart
Behold!
They say
She forges on
Though it never leaves her
If just a quick blip in time
In the corner of her eye
A hole burned by
A hot cigarette
A small portal
The other world
Like a maddening hangnail
She is afraid
She may unzip the very fabric
If she holds on too tightly
Behold!
She says
I am no rainy day blues
I am a symphony forged in
A natural disaster
Behold.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 8:43 PM UTC
Misery is an unrelenting downward escalation.
The heaviness of trapped energy becomes real weight,
it drags you down and fastens you into position,
a relaxed position, though you are not relaxed.
Placed this way, you burn as unstable chemicals burn,
fall as heavy objects fall when dropped by those
who possess them.
You are abandoned.
Left to stew in this pit of flames.
Those you danced and laughed with stop holding you hand,
for who would wish to cling to a burning thing?
This is why you deal with The Issue alone.
Because those who claim not to need anybody are liars
who wish to justify their solitude,
who wish to bury the fact that their companions,
when proven incapable of helping, no longer wish to help.
Alone, you are disgusted with them.
But now you understand. You do not act as they do
when the black clouds part because you have gained more
alone than they ever will together. And when you see
the blue sky again and regain your ability to fly
you will forever leave them and theirs behind.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
And t'is is truthfully why I am here, my love:
I belong to thee, sacredly, entirely, and soulfully
to thee-yes, only to thee!
My eyes brighten at every sight of thee,
my mind delights at the thoughts of thee,
my pulse fastens at the views of thee,
my blood curdles at the scent of thee,
my veins rustle at the gaze of thee-and hark!
Hark now, dearest-how my heart leaps,
sheepishly yet excitedly-when'ver I recall thee!
Ah, and how t'is feeling trembles and fidgets
as always, as thou stareth back-gladly and
with a smile so handsome yet animated and playful-
sweeping straightly back into my soul.
Like t'ose stupefying, sentient glazes of summers-
blowing silently with the rustic gallantry
of t'eir ruddy oaks, my heart is elevated
with defiant, but affectionate branches
of terrific, terrific love for thee!
Oh! And t'ese thou but needst to know-
t'at both my virtuous-and vicious lusts-crave only thee,
as well as how my pure joys rely on thee!
As despairingly as how
my soul was born for thee,
my life was crafted for thee,
my hands were paired with thee,
and thus so graciously are my young feet-
my toes, my ribs, my lungs, and the very limbs
in which my spines might dwell, and be celebrated
by thy gentle, manly breath.
Oh, how thou, my Western prince-so delicate
and blessed with all the might
of my very being-thou hath, my love, since the very first
been my gem, my bronze, my silver, my gold,
my charm, my pearl, my diamond, my light,
my fire, my treasure, and my lifelong dreams-as thou
shalt always be!
And so art thou the perfect accord
to comply with all such of my mine;
as thou art but the freshest bloom
of my ****** years,
as innocent as t'is nature's peaceful labyrinths-
but youthful and starry like the fruit of my most curious-
yet ardently succulent imagination.
And how I am so devoted to thee, my love!
Just like the stars are to the moon above.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
on the first day,
silence exists
to none; it awaits
the spark to turn
its light into sound
from singularity
to polarity
fastens and worsen
its glaze turns to screams;
the kaleidoscopic cacophony
turns nothingness
to an array of beauty
god looked at
the neverending pyre
and said
"that is all good"
he rest well the next day
Nov 15, 2023
Nov 15, 2023 at 9:09 AM UTC
Fingers on the back of my neck
Curl into my hair,
And a sigh whispers in my ear.
Like a cat drinking I have unraveled my muscles,
Condensed them loosely around my bones,
And he has condensed
Himself loosely around me.
The mute and immovable weight
Of his eyes laying themselves on mine
Flattens my lungs,
And ever eager to fix he fastens over me
And breathes .
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 8:23 PM UTC
a word from thy mouth
is the spectral arrow
from nimble bow.
risen are the caryatids,
unsheathed are the swords,
molested are the gladiola
by the night's harsh *****
the proscenium dislimns
as the iron curtain sea drowns
their blasphemous orations!
the thespians alerted
by a wordless hunt
as i rise like the dew
lambasting the autumnal grass
bedecked by glistening wheals
of ripe luminosities;
this damp hour, the mercurial
assault of declarations,
fastens every word underneath
tongues of river-deep stone.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
Mark’s hands are grooved by ***** handles
grown on trees in the garden. He fastens bundles
and plains the best, saves leftovers for autumn piles.
The forks and tangles become a bonfire
where his children pull on woollen ears, spin red cheeks
with tumbling songs, watch Mark butter tinfoil spuds.
The children sneek off into adulthood and play catch
with a gilt wooden box, the pick of the grain
from the trees in the garden where a new ***** fills in gaping holes.
The box throws out branches in a cobwebbed cupboard.
Green hands with grooves droop in summer
then yellow and fall in the middle of autumn.
The bottom of the cupboard mulched with bones
and the children’s cheeks still burn.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 10:38 AM UTC
I have it, so do you ,
that bug that gets under your skin.
It itches when it first bites,
then it latches on with all its might.
With hope that its little pincers will inject
its drug in to you. ya may itch, may come
out in a rash, heart beat fastens this
funny feeling that comes over you.
Am I infected I have feeling coming through,
It only takes one bite for the stubborn hearted
maybe two. But when this little bug does coming
it after one thing only to infect you.
We all get bitten at least once in our lives,
its the bug who chooses not me or you.
The words will follow after time,
the itching calms down,
but then I will say to who gets bitten,
"I love you, and you say it back "baby I love you to.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
Flakes slide on the window
as frost crawls under the pane;
in the gloom he sags in today’s suit.
Always pressed and draped, tie laid over
the back of a chair, yesterday’s was
and tomorrow’s will be.
He uses his fingers and drags out his face.
In the bed where he finds it hard to breathe
she lies asleep. He watches her, suit presser,
tries to rewind her then grips his shoulders
and fastens his elbows. Her wicker cabinet,
it’s pink top ringed by tea, is a cityscape
of tubs and bottles; plastic skyscrapers push together.
In the dark her skin smears like buttered chicken.
Each morning he scrubs his hands
to remove the grease, belly dented, soft against the sink.
His jaw works to swallow the blood and grit he tastes.
A clearing in the clutter sees a photo of their wedding day.
The landing light cuts flashes of silver into the glass
and he shrinks there, cuffs fall below hands,
trousers gape without a belt.
She’s wearing age like gold he thought would suit him,
but he hears the whispers before the speeches;
slit eyed guests, slack mouths behind order of service cards.
Burning through the picture, blanch knuckles
and crescents in his palms, the reflection shatters him.
Rigid, he should kneel and kiss the face
that folded too quickly, but his cheeks shine
and disgust drips into his collar. Slipping away,
with tomorrow's suit over his arm,
he filters himself through the gap in the door.
She doesn't move, though her eyelids shine.
Later today he will drink with friends
and tell them it was mutual.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 10:55 AM UTC
screams of systematic repetition
tuned to the key of C
rejuvenating the pulse
of the pulp on the floor
I found the time space continuum
on my back porch swing
stepping toward the screeching sirens
revealing the past scene by scene
Timing the sun in wrist-watch format
the liabilities not mine
the doormat said "welcome"
you catch my eyes glaring,
hastily waiting for your tears to run
your feet follow in suspended motion
Gunning for the hallway laundry chute
only to find the triggers on safety
the notion alone is enough
resetting the sun dials
with steady hands of anxiety
attacking the knobs at their fastens
My subtle brutality breaks
as
I awake on the kitchen floor
while the screeching of the sirens pull me in
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 9:16 AM UTC
A small, white crescent line cascades like Niagara through the window of your empty aura, and it turns. It boils and spins and whirls into a green orb, floating in place with the rest of the order. A ball fastens itself against its red backdrop, splitting ever so slightly with a soft, sullen texture, mixing with the ring to form a landscape so beautiful that I quiver when it slides across my tongue. This is, of course, the ring which slides around your lip, and puts together the sculpture that is your mouth. I start here, my tongue swirling delicately across a pink landscape, breathing and writhing with dewdrops of cherries, cleanly gliding across your upper lip, just below your green glow.
Next I hover above your collarbone, a sharp cut into the line of your chest, just above your breast, just below your neck. I move to caress the lines that form the right side of your neck, just below your jaw line, which I lick and meet the edge of your ear. Here I carefully allow my tongue to swirl with just the right intensity to make your ear warm. Melt in the sound of love, my sweet.
The world shifts downward as I journey to your chest, your strong breastplate serves as a rest point for me to breathe into. This journey is for the Goddess of Everything, and the intensity of this love is forbidden to take for granted. The pure simple shining happiness washes me away as I bite the supple and sensitive area that carves the tip of your breast, which forms, for me, a crescent moon. I caress the wilderness and I embrace God for all the journey has been worth.
The heat bakes into our skin, my hands slide wetly across your waist and my teeth rest around your bones. I withhold the urge to weep at the beauty as I move down. And here we go…I start at your ankles.
And I move
All
The way
Up.
With my tongue, carving a place to sleep up your thighs, and into your temple. This is where we go to worship. And I worship you.
I grasp and hold with slow breaths and slow thrusts the temple, I hold the center of all goodness and beauty, I am one with the edges of the universe. And you breathe, and breathe, and add to the condensation slowly rolling down my cheeks, and you moan, and you bite, and you lick and sweat and breathe and the fire builds and the heat builds and soon the green is a ROARING RED INFERNO, burning down all that is evil, building from nothing, and creating a kingdom set in flames. The kingdom of heaven. The center of God. I am here, I will never leave. I will sleep, tonight, in your glorious light.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 11:38 AM UTC
I am out of time’s clutches; -
Spiraling my irises downstream, until they penetrate
The solid wall of translucent wrapping paper
That encapsulates silver beads into a
Necklace that never breaks.
He fastens it behind my neck, reminding
Me of those parallel universes, those mirrors I
Used to play within. But that is over,
We are separate.
…
I am out of tune, a piano that has been left dusty.
Musical notes rot inside of me. Inside the damp, dank
Habitat that I fashioned out of my organs.
Laughter was being harvested, under the most desirable
Conditions. Artificial lighting shone and droplets of
Dirt held it in. No one ever got close to escaping.
Not from this body.
And so they leave me to gather dust, dismantling
Every inaction with a word that is made of serifs
And daggers. I cannot go back.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
Liquid fears, fears that are strangled,
strangled beneath my feet.
Will be there another chance to live?
Will be mine someday? ~That dream that unfolds like Time itself...
Take my lips, and let them dry in the wind,
Leave me standing in this vault full of demons,
Write my sentence about your shade and absence,
****** that vision of another realm! ~A dream that sleeps inside of me.
Can you save me?
Can you speak to my shadow, and kiss?
Will you be my chariot of salvation?
Will you release me from this dream? ~A dream that fastens another dream.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC