"hilts" poems
Rue thy feeble fate.
Fear the day when thine own eyes
Fail to see beyond thy hand.
Requiem for the rest-easies such as Thyself shall not come as welcome
Praise, but as fire and brimstone,
Blood from the grimy grindstones of
The weary working, ready to rise
And crush all unworthy opposition
With their hilts of red-hot rage,
Raising swords of liberty to the heavens and cutting down the opression that has stilted their air.
Weep for this is thy fate:
Thy death means justice for those who Have been defeated countless times,
Under a blooming, burning sky defeats Pile up like stars, simmering, waiting to Become supernovas and take every puny Universe down in their own glorious Descent, like
Icarus to the sun, a sweeter fall could not Exist on this lonely planet,
Into the unforgiving waters of victory.
Justice for those angry folk who by merit Have earned their own place, not by Some system that hands it to them, but By grit and toil alone,
By the fierce madness that is
Existing and not completely
Giving in to the ruin of being human, Following the words that
A wiser man than I spoke, that life is Struggle, that the only constant in this Life is the pain that all of us try to ignore In the futile attempt to block out the Tragedies that haunt us daily.
Face thy fears, coward.
Thou miserable wretch can't look thyself In the mirror, but can claim that we as a Species have hope for peace on Earth and Goodwill for all.
What dost thou know of goodwill? When didst thou give a single moment of thought to the happiness of anyone but thyself and thine selfish avaricious interests?
Thou shan't claim to know what is holy and just, yet scourge the very pious people that thou imitates; thou shan't slaughter the devout on a temple whose bricks are molded from hypocrisy and deceit.
Rue thy feeble fate,
Because thou deserveth every blow, every cry of mockery, every disgusted eye and every hideous pitiful moan that thy gravestone will inspire, and even Dante himself could not have imagined the flaming of the hellish unredeeming pyre that will be thy afterlife;
rue thy fate for no morals, no intercessions, no pleas or entreaties to be spared from the filth and maggotry that thou hast built thy very house upon canst save thee now.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 4:17 PM UTC
Eyes hang low
Retreating from the light,
Seeking shelter ‘neath heavy lids.
Machines whir in the back of my mind,
As their users push themselves
Thoughtlessly through their tired routines
Like hamsters on a wheel.
I hear the water dripping,
Almost as slowly as my thoughts,
Into the endless myriad
Of blue and red buckets.
My consciousness drifts away,
And suddenly it is my vehicle,
As I awake walking aimlessly
Through the crowded streets
Of some hot Arab marketplace.
Bearded men in headdresses
Bicker in strange languages
Over bizarre fruit, almost as vibrant
As the decorated sword hilts
Gently resting at their hips.
Past me walk crowds of lavishly clothed,
Brightly jeweled women,
Dressed more strangely and exotically
Then any person I’ve yet to see,
And I avert my own attention
So as not to draw that of others.
A co-worker walks past me,
Looking at me strangely,
And I emerge from the lake of my mind,
Flopping about as if I were a fish out of water.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 11:40 PM UTC
Arab scarabs
wielding scabbards
staggered with hilts
laid waste to
idle Cherubs in
garments
embroidered
like quilts.
They're off kilter,
with no filter, and
wear stilts where
leaves wilt, sir
please lilt yr
tactless
anachronisms
through fractured
refractive prisms
to help the mind
unbind from
shop, office, and
factory prisons
Listen:
there's a
penitent androgyne,
speaking
sentence in pantomime
as though rhyme
were no longer
a kind of
berated
creative crime: But
who
the
hell
CARES?!?!?!?!
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 6:20 AM UTC
An empty Chair
Clean plates collect dust
Food warming on the stove begins to burn
Candles pooling in forgotten molten wells
Clock ticking
Listening
For car tires in the drive way
For keys clacking
For a knock
For anything
The soufflé has fallen
The condensation on two glasses weeps
The rings that will be left on the table are not thought of
The asparagus wrinkles and is past well done
Hands turn
The wine bottle lightens
Thoughts of throwing dishes
“I’ll be home at seven”
Comes home at seven
In the morning
To a smoke filled kitchen
To a set table
To wicks burned down to hilts
To a melted ice cubes
To dried blackened memories of a once perfectly cooked meal
To carefully folded napkins
To wilted flowers
To an empty house and a still open back door
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
Stung by needles with golden hilts...and cut by shiny smiles. Memories, made from skin in the colour of scars, and then come the monster butterflies in my belly. Such is the feeling when the past comes back to haunt.Noah_arkenswagg
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Three daggers in my back and a sword through the heart...
I apologize if I don't get up as quick as others, or run as fast.
I'm trying to figure out where the hilts are.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
Accented voices
interrupted the starry pitch
& Reilly whispered,
"Holy ****
don't light 'em up,
use your blade instead."
And we did quickly,
buried them to the hilts,
sticky warmth ran swiftly
through my fingers
& we heard thud thud.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
Quiet. Silenced. Violent little knives of emotion too potent to speak. Build a wall of knives and stories around the strangled hopes. Feel the hilts against your back and know the blades face out, out, out to your enemies, out to those who would do you wrong. And out to those who wouldn't. Both ways. Keep one in, keep another out, let none through either side. A wall built high and close to keep you safe from pain and suffering and joy, for you are too fragile for joy. Joy might shake the mortar from the wall around you and leave you bare and leave you alone and leave you afraid. Fear makes you build walls.
But walls fall.
And walls forget what it is you built them for.
Knives are forged for fighting but these knives are far too small. Their blades are sharp and their points sting quick, but you’d never search for blood. You’re young, too young, when the first blade shows, in your wall of safety, shows its point turn in, not out, out, out, but at you and the lies you tell yourself. Pluck it from the wall, bury it deep in the soil beneath you. If anyone saw this blade, this rebellious blade turned against you, they might know the truth. Bury it where you never have to see it again and no one will ever find it.
But you only gave yourself so much room.
And knives are hard to sit on.
Pocks and dents and creases form against your soft, protected flesh. Rounded hilts and sharper hilts, hilts inlaid with gems. They press against your back, your hands, your quiet, folded features and stain your skin with shame and fear as the cold creeps nearer and closer and more violating. The ground beneath you shimmers of metal and regret and the walls grow thicker every day, closer to your soul. You hurt.
But you’re too proud of the walls you've built.
Even if they **** you.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
I wish I hadn't had it.
But I held it
It was magic.
I have and held magic
And now I hate,
and hate myself.
Felted in my own fabric
Of moldy fuzz and filth
Is a tapestry of life so tragic
built on edges of forged hilts.
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 9:58 PM UTC
The mountain loomed on the right,
as we reached our destination.
I was reminded of the sight
from the night of invocation
when my mind had taken flight,
and soared to this location.
It looked identical to the vision,
I write without hesitation.
So, in darkness,
and in foreign land,
we plotted our invasion.
Cleaning sand from our effects,
we readied for the occasion.
The air seemed to cool,
and build anticipation,
but of life, or of death?
The wind's exhortations
were a giant's dying breath:
Fitful in expectation
of whatever comes next,
forgiveness or damnation,
or an endless, empty depth,
lacking sense or explanation,
like this chasm filled with darkness,
awaiting our exploration.
Sword in hand, and men at ready,
we made our way inside.
Stomachs tightened, like our grips,
upon the hilts of leather tied.
We moved slowly, stabbing blindly,
at shadows where men could hide,
and found them empty, but for dust.
Uneasiness multiplied.
We advanced through the labyrinth
where the heat would not subside,
gliding silent, in the darkness
toward the smell of sulphide.
The glow of light, in a cavern,
stopped me in my stride.
I whispered for the men
to observe and to abide,
and discovered, to my horror,
there were none to hear my cry.
They were lost in the intestine
of this starving mountainside
with only fumbling hands and feet
to serve as sense's guide.
I sent a thought out to my men,
as best I could provide,
and pushed ahead into the mountain,
fearing this was suicide.
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 1:14 AM UTC