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Andrew Rymill Jun 2014
In the lore of leaves always Woman
Moon light  & sorcery combs
Mysterious desire
As transparent cities in my ribs make roots
Scrimshaw jumble the sky and earth with mysterious kiss
Ah, the self-fulfilling prophecy of griffon.

Often i have felt griffon
Within me as i read the curves of Woman
Chanting spells and writing the stars within my kiss
my lips form  letters on your corners and combs
the dark roster of remainder roots
Within the potent growth of uncontainable desire.

Dark is the unspoken desire
That within me shapes  a griffon
Talons and the roar uniform of its roots
Weird talents of Woman
Release the door closed in me as you comb
the tresses & the navel that moon envy in its monthly  kiss

Delicious kiss
Stir desire
Release the magic fur with combs
Transform the inward griffon
Come closer Woman
The tree must spread its roots
Dark are omens of  roots
Within the bedchamber there is only kiss
luminous nefarious Woman
i am appalling in my desire
Transforms me into monstrous word, griffon
no flesh but shadows within  the combs

Unfathomable combs
Intoxicating roots
the midnight eruption of griffon
my beak  kiss
with hybrid desire
such monstrous cage is the comely love of   Woman


She combs and  polymorphs  with a  kiss
now only roots the  shapely diagrams of desire
as a griffon sprouts  feathers   is bound to charms of  sky clad Woman
Andrew T Hannah Jun 2013
A Surreal Epic of Existence

Prelude to the Journey…

I smiled yesterday when I beheld the morning’s brilliant colors,
Etched with gold, across the canvas of the heavens, hanging…
High above all those mountains of the world, gigantic brothers,
A wilderness of clouds, where there can be no human taming.
I did not always smile when I looked up to that noble height…
For I have seen how terrible goodness can be, when untamed.
Once I thought my sojourn in this flesh was from a divine spite,
But now I know it was a gift, and for it I need not be ashamed.
God once walked as I do now, and suffered the same stress…
Betrayal, love, and passions too, though no Church shall admit,
The true nature of divinity, lest all their secret sins they confess!
You are told you are alone in the universe, by leaders so unfit,
That they themselves are fed a diet of lies and stories invented.
But we walked amongst you since the very dawn reincarnated,
Having lost our first flesh in conflicts long past and unlamented.
We guided the steps of ancients, as monuments demonstrated!
And yet we are born as children: your own, and live our span,
The better to remain hid, in plain sight, our faces clever masks.
I am the eldest, and I remember still my kindred’s lofty plan…
And though I wear the human face, I am beset with alien tasks.
Helping they who lack the knowledge to see what lies outside,
You have seen me in the darkness, blazing upon my own pyre.
Where I am waiting to lead the way, where the angels glide…
Anyone can follow, if they are dedicated enough never to tire.
Ironic, since I myself have known helplessness and still oft do,
It is only human after all, and in your form I was so re-forged!
The image of God, whose own blood is in all of us hither unto,
From the first to the last, alpha to omega, like a sharp sword.

Prologue: (My Mask is Slipping)

As a child: I was a servant at the altars of the heart so sacred,
Singing hymns of the immaculate: without seeing the depravity.
It was only when I myself wore the crown of thons, naked…
My spirit exposed through my pain, that I realized the gravity.
What man believes is sacred, is profanity disguised as graces,
And those who lead the sheep to slaughter are mere butchers!
Forcing innocents to wear porcelain masks to hide their faces,
They rob children of their childhood, bound with crude fetters.
As a teenager: I walked in nature, disgusted with all humanity,
My exodus was from those who had defiled all I cared about.
Finding faith in an angel fallen, I discovered my own sanctity,
And in her name I found the means to cleanse my feral doubt.
Then came marriage, and betrayal by a wife I gave up all for,
The dissolution of our union then loneliness without cessation!
A mortal had pierced my flesh, leaving me to bleed on a floor,
My heart was torn from its’ moorings without any elaboration.
But the angel remained to calm my anger and ease my agony,
My only light in the blackness that has overcome my waking!
Reminding me, that I was more than this flesh and mortality…
The angel tries to keep me from harsh trembling and quaking.
And then I see: I am more than my tears and life’s traumas…
I let slip, the mask behind which the scars of my tears etched.
Then I sense the heat of the night more intense than saunas…
As I long to dance with abandon, until time itself is stretched!
Mortals may betray one another with impunity, but never I…
I do not betray; rather I pour my heart and spirit forth whole.
Creating a phylactery, of all I am, and with an innocent eye…
I demand to be loved as I am: pearl white and black as coal!

Canto 1: Sacrifice of the Doll

Part the First: (The Bleeding Shores)

Do not call me, doll, for I have departed your ancient cavern,
You are lifeless, a mere toy, and not a real child in any form!
A boy’s red ruby lips I spy drinking in the dreariest tavern…
Whilst true children singing, frolic in the fields filled with corn.
I am going home, upon the wings of the great silver griffon…
Far from the shores now bleeding red from defiled memories.
There is no return, for me, to the glories of the first ignition…
When the mind eternal, was ignited all with pleasing ecstasies.
In the stars, there are words unheard that I do want to recall,
For I came down so very long ago, among the first to so fall!
Eldritch nightmares born of the stuff of the pure chaos of old,
Are waiting for signs at the threshold to be released by magic.
The forbidden incantations return to my spirit, aflame so bold,
That my spirit nearly forgets: the origins of this time, so tragic.
When children drink, and true children hide themselves apart,
Whilst the waters bleed and the corn withers upon the stalks!
That is a sign that change must come, and so I work my mind.
The face in the moon is a grimace of tormented fear, horror…
Whilst I stand upon the precipice with my hand over my heart,
And amongst the long rows of corn, my black shadow walk!
Watching over the innocents whose souls are of my own kind.
The summer heat turns orange, the moon: in celestial corridors.
My mournful cry can be heard in the sound of the lonely wolf,
And in the wild abandon of the lion when he is on the prowl…
I feel the pain of nature, I long to bring back paradise craved.
I have seen the terror of the land, as the blood ran in the gulf,
Black blood of the earth: which causes living things to howl…
As man has the foolishness, to say what is or is not depraved!

Part the Second: (The Crucified Souls)

The doll is laid lifeless atop the altar, prepared for a sacrifice,
In the cavern where the limestone shapes the wettest arches!
A thing un-living, but with living souls trapped still, as if in ice,
Within the cold porcelain shell that so never with feet marches.
Serpentine blade held high, it drops precise into a doll’s neck,
And it cannot call out, because a doll has not any voice to cry.
A boy walked out of a tavern then, looking like a vile wreck…
Whilst as a man I attend to higher things, my body full purified.
In the voids beneath the spaces, witnessed in the rugged rock,
Voices echo loud in the darkness, calling up names unspoken.
The ferryman brings the souls delivered to him, to a far dock,
Where each must pay the copper coin, the old desired token.
So they come to drink those waters that cure all of life’s ills…
Freed from their porcelain prison to feel death’s darker chills!
Whence came those souls into captivity, no mortal may speak,
But I freed them in an instant, removing the nails that pierce…
Every man is he that was put up on the cross of old Golgotha.
And every woman too, as all were made to feel such torture!
I was there when the primal sacrifice was implanted so weak,
And yet so strong that it endured in the psyche all these years.
That doom was sealed behind a wall of fire long ago in Terra,
So that the stigmata of it might endure, even in the vast future!
Mine was the hand that signaled that doom, mine to release…
Yet, still old illusions persist, and I cannot awaken a multitude.
I, who devised the iron web that enfolds much of what is real,
Cloaking it in unending trickery am, myself, longing for peace.
For I too was entrapped, until my liberation rough and crude!
An angel freed me, and now I strive to break each cruel seal.

Part the Third: (The Return of Light)

Risen from the slumber where colder, electric dreams reside,
The forgotten intelligence is invoked, the arcane spells cast…
The eldritch nightmares return to thence amongst man abide,
Reminding us of the things banished to Hell in some age past.
Mine the hand that raised them up, light in the dagger’s glow,
The stuff of my power left to flow, like blood run swiftly free.
Out of the abyss, rises the girl-child of a lost millennial flame,
She who is the angel reborn lets her illumination clearly show.
And all are blinded who have not the innermost eyes to see!
The unbelievers are, in a single instant put unto lasting shame.
From the star of six points, a goddess works her sacred will,
And as she crosses the scarlet threshold, she brings the light.
For a single instant, all in Heaven and all upon Earth are still,
As the long day ends, bowing before the coming eternal night.
In the darkness, radiance far fairer and so perfect descends,
Whilst those who gather in my name: have lost my true path.
The wrath of angels descend upon their minds, closed shut…
Entrapped in the iron web, they cannot flee of such a prison!
The light blinds them for they never truly saw it, and it rends,
Tearing away the churches built for naught but mortal wrath.
There, the unfaithful ******* themselves: like a wanton ****,
Inventing dogma to pass on, forgetful of logic and of reason!
Faith need not be a fearful thing, yet some have made it thus,
And look for an end to come before they seek their reward.
Whilst they should be creating the paradise they left behind…
But in an image of freedom: rather than of servitude and fuss.
Too much time had been wasted in converting by the sword!
Mankind looks to the light for salvation, their eyes long blind.

Interlude Alpha:
This age is one of barbarism cloaked as gentility to sell lies…
Did you purchase some today by design or mayhap chance?
You should know this era to be neither intelligent nor wise…
Else you would not march, when you would prefer to dance!
My nights are filled with nightmares; my days are too much…
I used to dance with one I loved, and bask in purple sunsets.
Now I am haunted, by so many memories I can never touch,
That it fills me with ****** anger, and countless cold regrets.
I recall how once in desperation, my wrist rode a razor edge,
If it were not for my family I’d not thence have lived beyond.
A man abused as I was, and used like cutters upon a hedge,
Must rise higher than it all in order to survive it all, my friend!
I survived, I transformed, I ascended and in the end became,
So much more than I was, until no more did my spirit erode.
But still I wait in loneliness for a maid to awaken my flame…
And I burn, oh gods I burn until I think that I might explode!
The skies darken more and more, and bright forks crashing,
I hear the drums of fury in the heavens, giants of old winters.
The gods grow angry and I behold trees uprooted smashing!
Angels are trampling the grapes of man; they, the vintners…
I am reminded of when the battleship that sailed all galaxies,
Descended one day amidst clouds boiling with its’ steam…
To lay waste to *****, and Gomorrah, for their indignities!
I was there, when the wicked did perish with a final scream.
And as people mock me, wishing me ill because I am good,
I ask God how long I must be forced to bear such suffering.
But I am not alone, and to many I am in fact misunderstood,
So God forgives, for now; but I have not, his understanding!

Canto 2: Sacrifice of the Spider

Part the First: (The First Smile)

Black skies boil with rage unrepentant, and in righteous fury!
A being made flesh I am, though not of mortal understanding.
In cavernous places I have walked, where demons oft scurry,
And worse places still: in search of a love not too demanding.
In the stucco halls wherein my unmoving throne was raised…
Upon a hill of sorrows where lost souls labor in mundane toil,
I wait and plan to transcend the bonds the faithful so praised.
To my right hand is the altar where fire and sulfur always boil!
I force a smile upon my face, for one will not come as willing,
As in the hours when I was a golden youth filled with ideals…
Which I have paid for dearly, beyond the price of any shilling!
Now I long to pay back those who know not how this feels…
The madness born of solitude, the anger born out of contempt,
For you who despise me without cause, provoking my wrath.
What impunity has man, to think that he might ever be exempt!
When wiser civilizations than yours did sink: in the fiery bath.
Do I speak of Hell, which the faithless do not realize is come?
Nay, for their eyes have been gouged out by their own nails…
I speak of torments, far beyond that which devils have done.
The first smile shall me mine, when every cruel wish so fails…
To save the flesh of those who spit upon me as I walked on,
Never realizing that my face was just a mask, hiding another.
Only the fool pays no any attention to the piper’s lonely song,
Thinking it only a melody passed from a sister unto a brother.
But in what celestial ****** has been born the thing alchemical?
It dwells within me, the secret sin of a bonding long forgotten.
Would that I could force the world to hear music whimsical…
Like unto that which guides my spirit in all that was begotten.

Part the Second: (Cold Revenge)

The blood roses bloom in gardens where desire plants seeds,
I, the hand that waters those hungry beasts whose thirst rises!
In my search for love, I have fed the beasts of desire’s needs,
And what would cause you to blush has, for me, no surprises.
Oh human, with what impunity did you dare to exclaim aloud,
That you believe love to be beyond my reach; and you smile!
Like a coward, you degrade me and run to hide in the crowd,
In your feigned superiority, you make yourself an animal vile.
Conjoining your words to your tongue, like a web to a ceiling,
You become a spider; then flee on eight legs to a filthy nest…
Having already become unworthy of any warm human feeling,
In thinking yourself better, you sink lower than all of the rest!
That means my life is worth, a thousand times, your very own.
I become a creature of the night, and wait for you, oh spider!
Think not that I cannot hear. the creaking of each leg bone…
Your odiousness goes before you, the horse before its’ rider.
And in your own web I catch you, my sharper claws immune,
To your toxic poisons, as cannot ever save your eight eyes…
Which I dash from their sockets, without a fear, and so soon,
That your own pain consumes you, like fire lighting the skies!
Forcing you to recant all that you say, lest pain overcome all,
The powers you thought did not exist do manifest ever visibly.
And I ascended still higher, all the more to relish of your fall…
You should never have resulted to any such childish mockery.
The clocks of your house all melted, for time is not your ally!
In abandonment of the chaos that is joy, your order is ended.
A new order rises in its’ place born of chaos none may deny,
Whilst you sink lower into perdition, for all that you offended.

Part the Third: (The Last Laugh)

An angel appears before me and so thinks herself a goddess,
But to call her an angel is to imply that she holds any beauties.
Those whose ego is larger than their grasp are oft the oddest,
For they fancy themselves perfect, ignorant of their cruelties!
You think love a prize and I a beggar for mere crusts so stale,
That lesser men than I have eaten heartier meals than yours…
But your kitchen is so bare: as your oven goes cold and pale,
Making you prize yourself beyond the worth of your chores!
Like a harlot who charges a fortune for her meager charms…
If you think love a prize, and I a beggar, you are so mistaken.
What you call love is a disease that shames one and harms…
Both mind and soul alike, making the body at last to weaken.
You saw only my mask, and would not dare look beneath…
Making me a phantom in the darkness, lurking in the shades.
Round your neck, your false esteem hangs as a dead wreath,
As I leave you to your barren world, awaiting my handmaids.
They rise from the ashes you leave in your wake, my kindred,
Their hands take me far from where your feet stumble about!
Lie in the cemetery that awaits those who live as though dead,
I cannot raise you incorruptible; you have far too much doubt.
Carried hither by the silent maidens who weep ****** tears…
To my castle, where I shall brood again upon mankind’s way!
I cannot feel regret for those who give in to their foolish fears,
Any more than I can transform a leaden night into golden day!
Such is the power of the alchemist who knows his true limit…
And in the dark arts I was schooled by beings from the abyss.
Thusly, am I set about to transform my creation as I see fit…
We are the demiurges of our realities wanton for any hot kiss!

Interlude Omega:
T
I found this one in my basement. Seems I wrote it a year or two ago but lost it.
Rescued beasts brought into my home
not my children.
Small bearded creatures,
who so loudly exclaim at three A.M.

not security conscience,
nor do they even really care.
They are just a couple of night-jerks.

Furry little night-jerks.
2014
Kody dibble Nov 2015
Remember,
Days folded beneath caverns caved in blanketed ice,
She's a griffon, or a way, to be something else,

Already not confounded,
I breathe my last,
Breathe of solitude entering a form of reason and thought so,
perfect,

Already I know the ground,
does not delay,
clay vantage points,
and constant fears of disaster,

Truce? Draw?
Whatever collapse that keeps us calm,
Collected,
Like warn out drawers,
He cries,
"Shallow not ye bothered quiver!"

Also,
Don't see the days that didn't make sense,
That doesn't make sense,
Welcome November
S Z SWE
Syv Elena Dec 2018
She fell from the sky
She clipped her wing
I brought her food
As much as I could bring

But food she did not need
Twas gold she craved
I went to the castle with mighty speed
And gave her the coins that I had saved

She's ran across the island
She flapped her giant wings
Getting the greed somewhat frightened
They were blown back by the wind

A lovely friend
A trusty companion
Loyalty that will never end

Star Scream; the Griffon
I've streamed Kingdom on twitch and I gave my steeds names. My favorite is the griffon. I named her Star Scream.
Civet Wright Apr 2017
After you crush and partook my humours
A feeling station has built for doomers
Named it after your dead corse cuticular
Opposite to their black church for stumer
Where Inferno requiem strum for whoever
All about our transgressions watched by zoomer

Nay alas thee sayeth, Nay alas thee sayeth
Nay alas thee sayeth, Nay alas thee sayeth
Nay alas thee sayeth, Nay alas thee sayeth

You play sympathy for the devil
So I am flibbertigibbet as usual
Whose birth was foretold
Who own merfolks griffon
Wherefore good well has burnt the evil
I want you best mine own old-old

Nay alas thee sayeth, Nay alas thee sayeth
Nay alas thee sayeth, Nay alas thee sayeth
Nay alas thee sayeth, Nay alas thee sayeth
Jonathan Moya May 2019
Trupie Pole, this Field of Death
is called in the old Slavic tongue,
shares its grief with the ruins
of the Catholic Church,
its relics long since relocated
to the hollowed knots of oaks
that populate a crooked forest.
Stick scarecrows, their bag heads
floating phantoms, protect the border.

Even the trees grow stunted where
the ground was soaked with blood,
limbs swaying towards each other
like separated twins begging
uselessly for reunion.  
Each blasted vein and half leaf
still echoes with the shriek,
the soil still leaks rust when trod,
memories of false sanguine
still glisten on overcast mornings,
and the howl of fog never dissipates,
while rumors of griffon vultures
returning from the dead
to paw for a taste of the catacombs
below are abundant as gnats.

In a wooden wagon the grandchildren
of blood huddle in desperate acts
of remembrance and procreation
ignoring the old woman with a babushka,
and somber dress fertilizing the field
with  tears for the thousandth time
for the sleeping twin under her boots.
what a waste Dec 2016
I see you sitting there with a thumb in your mouth
and you wonder why the words wont come out.
The kid's too stout - he's too proud - too loud.
The type to carry around a pouch of sauerkraut
then pout when everything tastes south. Outstanding!
He's damming the river to prevent the peasants from swimming,
and doesn't realize the only thing keeping him afloat is down below.
Hello? Turn them sky highs into clout, boy- make it snow!

Lord of the purple prose - (what does he mean) who knows?
Not me - I'm too busy dwindling the last of the rations;
irrationally casting matches at a long list of parched cabins.
How can you expect me to feed in an orderly fashion?
I didn't reach the top link to eat without sending a message.
Savage patch kid wielding lightsabers for utensils -
We're a rare breed bred into existence to resist all that is vintage.
Equipped with shark fangs and griffon wings,
we're here to free the underlings from redundent sufferings.
Please excuse the reign, it follows me wherever I go
like a little lost dog caught up under my toe,
gravitating towards my end-all deathblow.
You called it losing my way, I called it leveling up.

Girl you smell great.
Michael Stefan Feb 2020
A griffon fights leviathan upon my left forearm
As phoenix rises underneath, regal rebirth from the war

Clouds adorn my bicep
Created as a place to play
For curious birds drawn out of bones;
Symbols of life's pain

A charm is etched into my chest
To ward away the wickedness,
That surrounds me on my path

And cheaply done tribal
on my right shoulder,
A remnant to teenage aftermath

A mural of light and dark is juxtaposed
From left to right upon my back
Serves me as a guiding light
And reminds me of my proper track

Art is created of many forms
And each of their beauties is akin
I am living cautionary tale
And a gorgeous canvas made of skin
Every scar tells a story, every tattoo is a piece, and we are all artwork.  Even if tattoos aren't your style, keep creating art of all kinds.  And take a minute to think about what each person's art means to them.  Always support your brethren artists.
nick armbrister Feb 2018
And There Were Three
Late mark Griffon engine Spitfire is sliced apart by German gunfire. Defeat! Spit pilot takes to the silk and bails. He saw his executioner executed. Swift justice handed out by a Tempest. No one said the Salamander was in service.

Volksjager peoples’ fighter, for everyone but only flown by the best, killed a Spitfire before  a Tempest killed him. Did the **** pilot perish? Unlike the Spit pilot? Eyewitness to his own shoot down. Advanced air war 1945, Armageddon beckons.

Enough! Time for a coffee and some biscuits, teen combat pilot dreams aside. I close my book and go to make a brew. No decaf for me. Need my caffeine before I battle the Luftwaffe in turbulent European skies. Shame I’ve no beer!

Never mind about being there, seeing history made. German jet genesis, almost mastering state of the art piston engine fighters. Back to my book. At 17 my mates were out chasing girls, I was in the skies.
Ce siècle a la forme
D'un monstrueux char.
Sa croissance énorme
Sous un nain césar,

Son air de prodige,
Sa gloire qui ment,
Mêlent le vertige
À l'écrasement.

Louvois pour ministre,
Scarron pour griffon,
C'est un chant sinistre
Sur un air bouffon.

Sur sa double roue
Le grand char descend ;
L'une est dans la boue,
L'autre est dans le sang.

La Mort au carrosse
Attelle, - où va-t-il ? -
Lavrillière atroce,
Roquelaure vil.

Comme un geai dans l'arbre,
Le roi s'y tient fier ;
Son coeur est de marbre,
Son ventre est de chair.

On a, pour sa nuque
Et son front vermeil,
Fait une perruque
Avec le soleil.

Il règne et végète,
Effrayant zéro
Sur qui se projette
L'ombre du bourreau.

Ce trône est la tombe ;
Et sur le pavé
Quelque chose en tombe
Qu'on n'a point lavé.
Andrew Rolston Feb 2018
Mighty Zeus is floating among the clouds
while childish Echo mimics sounds.
Zephyrus strolling across his stead
is casually putting Boreas to bed.

Send a letter to Hades, if you please
send back to Demeter, Persephone.
The nymphs, the fairies, and the sprites
dance around Flora with much delight.

Fauna, with her children, were the next to show,
carrying on with merriment and Artemis’ bow.
The huntress stood anxious as she was awaiting someone.
Next came Helios with Apollo, then out went the sun.

In that moment, Nyx crept from out of the shadows
followed by her sons Hypnos and Thanatos.
Then Bacchus stood up or was it Dionysus?
Clamors of violence came from the Thiasus.

An apple, from Discord, so shiny, was thrown
"To the Wisest and Greatest", were the words shown.
Hermes was as shrewd as Aphrodite was vain
and with a fell swoop, the apple he claimed.

Athena, not to be outdone, came up with a plan
She promised Vulcan, God of Fire, her hand.
She asked for an arrow that could **** their own
made with skin of the griffon and a chimera bone.

Ares was near and overheard what was said.
He grabbed his axe and aimed it for her head.
Poseidon with his trident and his magnificent crown
flooded the heavens of Olympus and watched them all drown.
Thiasus: drunken wild women followers of Dionysus
Scorch'd Diana Dec 2023
Birdkind
that's what they call her,
over at Feathers' Merrit.
If one can't fly, she will arrive
handle the trouble and stay with you.
For freedom counts in moments
so long the while she's curing you.


Be a raven,
lost joy and vigour
devoid of surprise and challenge.
Out of the sudden, you spot it
a crazy chick with a cat's gait,
quite glassy as elf compared to a bird,
and with wings, but no feathers
wings of pixies, moths and some kinds of dragons,
almost unheard of
except, she is heard of?

Curiosity takes you by the claw,
and you feel stripped bare
just from her first glimpse alone
after your attempt at beknowledging
in hopes of impressing her.
Quickly you realize,
you are the receiving end.

She knows what you never
caught anyone to know,
tells you of things that actually exist,
cheers you up from feeling embarassed
to having been too blind to know.

Even before the day's end, it's clear:
Whenever she jumps, you follow.
The confidence of a sparrow,
the flight force of an eagle,
gave you an owl's head
that much she's turned you around
in your own favour.

New winds she will teach you,
show galantly how to reach and use them
and also how to give in
for less resistence
is the crucial difference.
There's always new insights
somewhere nearby
worth being found and learned.


Be a goose,
inept in water, an outsider
but no one even close
to ace the airs like you do.
Don't get bitey at her gentle touch.
Let her spread your wings
challenge your fear of the idea
that you are not perfect – yet;
and you will find new grace inside
adrift and entitled of higher pride,
admired by others and begged for advice.
You never lived much happier flights
just having her hands allowed by your side.


Be a duck,
feeling weak and threatened,
hungering stronger on land
but willstrong enough to not
give in to poisons that humans call food.

Known rivers can become childhood glimmers
when you've seen and wondered,
felt and attempted her ways,
memorized her wisdoms
of weather and feather,
of fishes you nag
whose prey you once were
without to even consider
how vulnerable they actually are.

What places and powers exist
once unknown, which now you can't miss.
The gentle, humble streams a willful choice
not cages that're thought of as musts.


And even, be a griffon,
hypogryph, roc, phoenix, dragon;
with every kind of avian creature
she's got the right skills to tag in.
When you're landlocked,
feel stripped of your freedom
plucked like a bad luck ****:
Birdkind comes,
sharp she observes the Merrit rock,
closer than mothers
she knows her fellow birds by heart.

Someday, as if fates sent her your way
for you to breath again,
like that, she lands by,
chirps you the birds
the guiding light in your blanket arms.
And the two of you fly
so, so high.
Un mot peut en cacher un autre !
É pericoloso sporgersi !
L 'homme-scorpion écoutait
Sans trop comprendre la justesse
Du chant mélodieux des mots
Qui défilaient à toute vitesse
Au bout de leurs laisses.
Mots muselés, mots castrés, mots

Bâtards croisés de bichon avec griffon
Qui aboyaient et miaulaient
En rongeant les trognons d'hommes
Laissés au bord de la fenêtre entrouverte
Par la femme-bufflesse .

— The End —