"maiming" poems
There’s a battle raging through my head,
So much that it knocked me off my bed.
There’s a war raging through the thoughts;
Diverse and dismayed neither I can sort.
Haste is the time that spent wasting
Entertained by such pacifistic maiming.
Ideating the norm and realizing the storm
had just started as I shut the squirm.
Conscience speaks the threat at hand,
the head does not agree the time it spanned.
Where there are more things on heaven and earth;
there are more dreadforth than my brain sports.
The enemy lurks the darkness in me,
passing by the realm of my inability.
I had to open eyes wide to invite the Light
while at the same time shut from plain sight.
Recall the Words spoken to me,
realize there is much for me to see.
The villain emerge from the dark of the moon -
the cerebral crater dormant from the day’s form
“You – are not – real.
You are just a figment;
an imagination, a fantasy,
one that I let you haunt me.”
The One I know died for,
Lived and loved me through the core.
Lies no longer seem redemptive nor elegant nor sped;
Flee not the grace and flee the grave though instead.
Jolt to wake myself up,
admonition that all along I was held at a stop.
The battle becomes the sleep yet decided;
settled more for the Love had invited.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
She saw the face of Judas in him.
The bearded kiss festered no truth
and the metallic breath
exhaled putrid faithfulness.
The trampled petals spoor no lusting stares,
redolent no more
even as the tongue creeps by the shoulders.
The razors have summoned from the stinking room!
A slit in the neck
could rhythmically go by the thrusts unnoticed
But the chorus of the beasts
as shrill as the gongs of hell
maiming vengeance yet
not in the loss of blood will you die.
Not in my hands.
His demonic pleasures went on as the voodoo doll
resurrected in the beat of my own gongs.
Keep stirring as this spindle rouses my anathema!
his chest hairs
pint of blood
vulture’s beak
stallion’s tails
bobcat’s eye
dead evergreen
Deborah’s tears.
Stir and stir and stir!
Murmur satan’s prayer
mana mana mana boo!
ruba ruba ruba hoo!
Count the sands of the transient hourglass
expiring ‘fore tic tac sound.
Now her man froze,
bulging eyes, blackened pulse!
‘tis freedom, Deborah!
Free.
Doomed.
© Glenn Sentes
03-06-13
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
"The global bull market has continued its seemingly relentless advance, unchanged by geopolitical concerns…….."
• The Israeli-Hamas conflict now blazing in Gaza, Palestine, two military forces locked in a deadly struggle to the end, killing and maiming thousands of ordinary citizens.
• Malaysia Airlines flight 17 blasted out of a clear blue Ukraine sky by the Bus surface to air missile
unleashed by the Pro-Russian Separatists killing 298 unsuspecting, innocent, international travellers.
Culpability denied by all.
• Anwar Al Awlaki, the American born Cleric, directing clandestine terror attacks and assassination by Al Qaeda beyond the Middle east into Asia and Europe.
• Deposed President, Mohammed Morsi’s Muslim Brotherhood, responsible for terrorist activities including multiple car bombings throughout Egypt.
• President Bashar Assad of the Alawite minority, an offshoot of Syria’s Shiite religion, waging religious genocide against his own nations people
and now in open conflict with the Muslim uprising Sunni forces of the new Isis Caliphate.
• The beheadings, slaughter and terror unleashed by the Sunni, Isis Caliphate uprising rampaging through Iraq.
• Russia’s sudden invasion and forceful annexation of the Crimea.
• Russia’s brutal pressure on the sovereignty of the Ukraine through its clandestine weaponry supply and sponsorship of the Pro-Russian Separatist Forces occupying the nations East.
The Middle East is now…an Apocalypse.
This epoch of cruel waste
Where man kills man
For God and gold,
For power’s lust.
Where the Sword of Calamity
Wields destruction and death
On those who can least afford it
By they who should never impose it.
**In the face of all this …..an unbelievable prioritization with this headline quote from today’s NZ Herald….
“There are financial risks to be endlessly jumping at shadows…to overreact to market noise!"**
UNBELIEVABLE!!!!
M.
Auckland,
NEW ZEALAND
31 July 2014
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
it was a late night
we were walking alongside a road
quiet was the air with the exception of the rare
car passing
but then out of the darkness
it came
the car was all windows down
rap music busting through worn speakers
yells and whistles penetrating our ears
yet we walked on
but the monster crept back
hungry for our power
preying on our innocence
maiming us with their words
and just like that it was finished with us
it slunk off into darkness
never to be seen again
Coward.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
The world is my oyster
No its not
Ever oyster needs a shuck
Tell me where mine is?
Another pill
Another suppressant
No
No more pills
A sweet shot of adrenaline
The other me takes the wheel
My devil behind the wheel
My foot pressing the gas down
Another monster releasing
Bloodshot vision
Crimson craving beast
Cutting
Stabbing
Ripping
Tearing
Maiming
Beating
Twisting
Biting
My my just can't lie
Its the love of the chase that created this high
My my I need a shot again
Sweet adrenaline
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
Kalifornia sub-let of the love set / squatting in squalor to dwell in splendor / Temporary Autonomous Zone ignites ignoble night / misfit labyrinth of fire / in dearth of **** the mirth of Death / coming to Crowleyan conclusions / smoking to get lit / the flaming maze, maiming, flays / demonology of **** vs. methodology of death / distinguished Burning Man, extinguished / idyls of the idols reduced to ash / Light My Fire / sitting shiva vs. dancing shiva / rave on
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
**A ravaged beauty -
long threatened tired life,
riding appreciated**
Friday’s off-road cycle ride started late with a heart-choking chill head-wind blown rain - blurring my glassed vision, so I trusted into the triple lanes of colours slicing through the Vale of Neath. Here a builder’s ladder jumped boomeranging off it's white van - attempting to decapitate me - behind me it’s miss was announced by squealing brakes and crunching impacts, scaring alive splattered visions of a flat-end and being posted within a near drain. Surviving today's devilled ribbon of the dangerous windscreen imprisoned - sitting with pub bound murderous cohorts - I found off-road safe solitude’s mountain bike path East to Coelbren - joining new, a fine yet unsigned cycle route curling around Mynydd y Drum, to open views of Cwm Tawe as I pass hunting twisting through woods a single Red Kite. Then gravities speed, circles barriers into Ystradgynlais top - a narrow ribboned descent, hemmed by cars and paved children to the rugby fields.
**Senses travelogue -
previously un-experienced,
time spins slower**
Here the trails old section points to Swansea - winding lost betwixt fields, paths, trees and roads to Cwmtawe Cycleway proper, there to pedal beside and across Afon Tawe with repeated special offers of child saddled exhaust roaring kamikazes, bicycle maiming broken glass, proudly owned attack dogs, branch hung ball-sacks of excrement, visions of the lost ripped-away steel gated stops, hacked-off wooden fences and never-there deceitful dreams of red doggy bins all disguised what passed for hidden beauty, which he called lovely ugly. *Backing-into Pontardawe to crawl away below the dark bridge,
past a single inviting pub - I accompany the Tawe and it's twin a decrepit polished canal
through ***** alleys - until our hero stutters, gapes then tunnels under
great noisious noxious ribbons of hurtling tired....*
**Pressured paced life -
impossible commitments,
Living organic**
.
May 1, 2010
May 1, 2010 at 9:37 AM UTC
a minority of surgeons need
to have their knives confiscated
their ineptitude with these instruments
can be clearly demonstrated
injuries from scalpel croppers
are carried for a lifetime
poor usage of a cutting tool
causes culpability every time
litigation in court is awaiting
those who can't handle a knife
they'll be tried for maiming
their patients for life
redress must be sought
in the form of compensation
by those who carry scars
out of botched up operations
we entrust our limbs and organs
to the medical fraternity
and they are obliged
to treat us with the utmost care and dignity
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
If I could but learn to discard a wounded piece of self
If I could part with the beautiful symmetry
Of the cogs, driving forth the machinations,
Churning with their white noise, that
Turn to shape maiming thoughts
Then I might one night close my eyes,
Not to images of words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
But to a peaceful blackness
Yes, I might lie down, close my eyes
Out of a will for rest, not contrived
But organic and my own
And so I know this as my waking dream
Relegated to wake for the night has been
Deemed the world of painful perfection
A place where protection is offered
With a backward hand, carefully made
Patron to the lovely polished mental instruments
Used to bludgeon simplicity and idiosyncrasy
Used to leverage pressure on the scales of the heart
So to tip downward the side of known cyclic indifference
And lift upward toward heightened neglect
The side of pleasure, the side of silenced retrospect
I grow, each sleepless evening, more fearful
That the ugly, backward hand might never forgo its leverage
And, if life is a wellspring of knowledge
Feeding into a stream of lessons
Then my strife stems from reading of the
Same page in the same chapter of the same textbook
A book filled with words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
On this page, one learns a fundamental formula
It derives the relative weights of who we are
And the happiness we might find
Through some convoluted tale of misfortune
My page was written by an ugly, backward man
So, through unsagely studies, I’ve concluded
That the art of well defined reprimanding thought
Does outweigh in its beauty, the unseen hope
Of a future left to whim and bliss, or perhaps
The simple elegance of chance, goodness unsought
So, for the first time in my life, I seek to unlearn
I seek to roll back the defining lines that once flowed
From the pen in a backward hand that yearned to sow structure
But the vaulted walls that hold the scales of one’s will
Are so dauntingly difficult to unbuild or puncture
This, truly, is the weight that each sleepless night
Bares down upon my sleepless heart, so heavy
If I cannot pull exacting, formulaic pages from my sight
I fear the only peaceful blackness I will find
Is one against no patron hand can levy.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
To many complain
On others
Writes-
How about
Instead
Complaining-
Write-
Instead of maiming
Be polite-
In
Stead of claiming
To be right,
For once take
It your wrong-
Instead of turning abhoring
Into daily trending,
Make poetry beauty
With your poems and song,
Instead of minding everyone elses
Business.
Mind yours,
Instead of back talking-
Close your door.
If your not here to write
Leave this premises-
Instead of using jealously
As anger,
Put down your acts of dennis-
The mennis- instead of making f.e,a,r
Mongering this sites boutique-
Search inside yourself,
Fix the you that is weak.
If claims dont match no names
Hush, to your sleep.
I'm here to write-
Were here to write-
Not fight about your
Bad week.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
Hard frost and treacherous footing.
Nobody wanting to admit
that the new year
tastes an awful lot
like the old year.
None of our heroes
have been supernaturally resurrected.
There's the same
rank toxicity to our fears.
The jaunty carnival of ****** and maiming
continues unabated.
Death remains as senseless.
The corridors of power
are still slippery with slug trails and viscera,
and all the janitors have been
indefinitely furloughed.
It's cold, and
the bus is late again.
Still we persist in believing that
today will be different to yesterday,
that all those wrongs will be righted,
that the proper order - as we each individually, as
thin-skinned gods of our own personal
nuclear universes, perceive it -
will be perennially restored,
the buses will all
run on time,
and no one good
will ever die again.
But the truth is, this year
tastes an awful lot like
the old year.
I could be wrong, I guess.
Maybe everything will
turn out
fine.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 4:25 AM UTC
The environmental fade.
This industrial plague-
The materialistic rage that keeps
Our very society intact.
The plastic facade
Of man made hate,
Minutemaid trade
One minute after the attacks.
Against who today?
Who is to blame?
For this unending, cyclical
Societal maiming
Of the people who do not
Follow in your tracks?
Brothers,
Take a step back.
Look at what you´ve created.
This angry, killing war machine
Whose views are simply outdated.
Constructing thoughts that decompose,
Weight of words made the herds feel emaciated.
Society is crumbling and you’re concerned
With feeling validated?
Social media leave you exposed
And aggravated.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 11:34 AM UTC
Rummaging noises that muscle into stark gravity
maiming
black & white finishes
into the hands of young artists
and everyday geezers
--drinking wine made for mad housewives.
We are seduced and strangled by this.
Spirits that knock seven times
on Hiroshima's soul that levitates through
planet Earth's oceans
--how can we not pull a ****
from our sweaty palms?
Gods, and doors, and chalk spittle
that gores the gorilla's back in the abyss
threatening hopeful snow--the lifting of applauding
violins. We are seduced and strangled by this.
Cultural amoeba--
the dimensional of minds
--made up of blank smoke
and film negatives.
And oh!
How the gasoline pours rainbows
on the pavement, fertilizing the crosswalks
where we danced...
seduced and strangled by this.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
**A ravaged beauty -
long threatened tired life,
riding appreciated
Friday’s off-road cycle ride started late with a heart-choking chill head-wind blown rain - blurring my glassed vision, so I trusted into the triple lanes of colours slicing through the Vale of Neath. Here a builder’s ladder jumped boomeranging off it's white van - attempting to decapitate me - behind me it’s miss was announced by squealing brakes and crunching impacts, scaring alive splattered visions of a flat-end and being posted within a near drain. Surviving today's devilled ribbon of the dangerous windscreen imprisoned - sitting with pub bound murderous cohorts - I found off-road safe solitude’s mountain bike path East to Coelbren - joining new, a fine yet unsigned cycle route curling around Mynydd y Drum, to open views of Cwm Tawe as I pass hunting twisting through woods a single Red Kite. Then gravities speed, circles barriers into Ystradgynlais top - a narrow ribboned descent, hemmed by cars and paved children to the rugby fields.
Senses travelogue -
previously un-experienced,
time spins slower
Here the trails old section points to Swansea - winding lost betwixt fields, paths, trees and roads to Cwmtawe Cycleway proper, there to pedal beside and across Afon Tawe with repeated special offers of child saddled exhaust roaring kamikazes, bicycle maiming broken glass, proudly owned attack dogs, branch hung ball-sacks of excrement, visions of the lost ripped-away steel gated stops, hacked-off wooden fences and never-there deceitful dreams of red doggy bins all disguised what passed for hidden beauty, which he called lovely ugly. Backing-into Pontardawe to crawl away below the dark bridge, past a single inviting pub - I accompany the Tawe and it's twin a decrepit polished canal through ***** alleys - until our hero stutters, gapes then tunnels under great noisious noxious ribbons of hurtling tired....
Pressured paced life -
impossible commitments,
Living organic**
.
May 6, 2010
May 6, 2010 at 12:54 AM UTC
the veil of glamour and desire
that shrouds a heart, beaten so black
and blue, that deep down, revolts the
idea of ever being
loved, adored, or anything but
the maiming devil it knows well.
Dec 19, 2023
Dec 19, 2023 at 4:58 PM UTC
Ms. Miss Me
Messes with the mess
Of Me
Messianic Masonic Messiah
Making mountainous modules
Manufactured from the make-shift
Makings of my soul
Which lifts me
Higher than before
It’s
Mysterious mysticallity
How you made me
After you met me
The misogynistic misogamist misfit
Meets Ms. Perfect
You misled me
You knew I didn’t want to fall in love
I mistreated you
And now
I miss seeing you
Mr. Missed Her
Mistakenly misunderstood
Her magic
For a trick
My mania must mean
I’m
Malevolently maiming my mind
Never mind me
NO!
Forever mind me
You’re forever mine
Even if only in the mind
My metal moccasins
Stump through
The mine field
On my quest to find you
Again
Constant explosions
Milling
A million
M-80’s to make
A metaphor
Of the fire within
The fireworks
I mean
Hopefully the fire works
I destroyed your
Mint commission
I meant condition
Your mint condition
Was devalued
From my mixed intentions
And messages
Monotonous tasks
To get you back
I get your back
And stay forever
In your past
Empty
M.T.
Mt. Empty
You built me
Just to leave me
Empty
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
I am experiencing a problem with my poetry
I do not know what my next step will be
Wobbly
Stumbling
over syllables and web pages
I am shaking and vibrating
Spot light is blinding
on life's stages
I keep forgetting my lines
So I speak of shoe laces
in leveled metaphors
and the look of their flesh cases was ageless
Yet, I can't stand their faces
Not on this or that knee
It is anxiety
I thought it was mild but its becoming severely
annoying. Faults and fractures
flake my stature
like bark from a tree
Just start running
Evading
Something I do not want to face
Slave trading, soul maiming
while their raiding
I am hidden in the shading
of planets in space
We're all black in this place
No superiority nor disgrace
Just aiding
the next broken person
so they can have a chance in the race.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
I know this girl.
It started off good. We were friends. I'd smile at her, and she'd smile back. It was simple. She would fascinate me. We'd touch fingertips, both having wide eyes and expressions of innocent amazement.
As I got older, I began to ignore her. I didn't seem to have time to see how she looked or what was going on. My life was busy, and I stopped caring.
But as I grew up, suddenly she was all that mattered. I'd seek her every chance I had. Before I went anywhere and after any adventure, I would always think of her, conspicuously glancing at the people around me to see if they had as well.
Time roughened and then came the crying. I couldn't bring myself to consider her. I'd turn her away. I couldn't bear to see her. When I was fine though, she was still all that mattered.
Sometime that year I began to insult her, calling her fat, and stupid, and many more maiming words. Most days the roles would slide between us. She would judge me as well, shaming my body and appearance, making sure I never felt comfortable in public. We hurt each other. We hurt ourselves.
I've always thought it would be simpler if she wasn't around. We have too much in common. I know how to perfectly shatter her. She points out all my flaws.
Sometime in my life though, I'm going to have to stop.
She shouldn't tell me that the outfits aren't acceptable. I shouldn't tell her that she won't ever be worth anything. We need to stop talking. We need to stop listening.
We need to be friends again.
Its hard having such a battle with your reflection. Mine is everywhere, haunting me. Sometimes she's beautiful. Sometimes I'd even say she's worth it. Sometimes I love her. Usually I don't. Usually all I see when I look at her is how much I've let myself down. Usually we aren't friends. Usually I don't even know this girl. Usually I hate her.
It's not good.
But I know this girl, and I know her strength. I know she how can overcome. I know someday it will all be good.
I know this girl.
And we can do it.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
Keep the innocents in the village
Don't let the children play outside
The homeless and the nameless
Must stay huddled together
Finding shelter where they can
Because there are killers high above
Dropping bombs of hatred and rhetoric
Killing and maiming indiscriminately
And the killers are from so many places
Leaders from all over the world
Whose only morality is ambition
And their only emotion is paranoia
And those who dare to disagree
Are shut up or closed down
Never to be heard from again
And those who care to notice
Are watching open-mouthed
The bloodied stump of history
Right before their eyes
By Phil Roberts
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 1:34 PM UTC
The Obscenity of Conscript (and PTSD)
He sits at the table nursing his beer,
Scruffy, unwashed, a bit smelly I fear,
When he thinks he's unseen he'll wipe off a tear.
Come closer I'll tell you his story.
A bank "johnny" married, his future a joy,
For a pretty young girl and a fine young boy.
But then you decided his "year" to deploy...
For a war you did not intend winning.
And so, after kissing goodby to his bride,
He stepped onto a bus full of vigour and pride,
To Kapooka was taken - a happy bus ride...
To a war you did not intend winning.
By training, his past wiped off that it might
Be replaced by the will for a jolly good fight
And that he be led by his team to the light...
Of a war you did not intend winning.
Well, he gave his time plus all that he saw,
The killing, the maiming, brute life in the raw,
With the drink that he took to escape from your war,
A war you did not intend winning.
And when it was finished and home he returned,
Two years his life missing, by God how that burned,
Then by erstwhile good friends he found himself spurned,
For fighting your war without winning.
Turned back from its door by the ****** RSL.
He was just looking to talk with some others as well
Who's life, just like his, had been turned into hell
For fighting a war without winning.
And the lovely young bride who'd looked on with such pride
As her husband departed their warm bedside
Has found she can't talk to nor get alongside,
Of the man she thought had been winning.
For he sits at their table hunched over his beer,
'Midst all of those things that he once held dear,
And refuses to tell her what she needs to hear,
Thus loosing what they'd both been winning.
Now she has gone to her mum and her dad,
And erstwhile "good friends" think he's gone to the bad
But you and I know he's just feeling so sad
And never thinks about winning.
He sits at the table nursing his beer,
Scruffy, unwashed, a bit smelly I fear.
When he thinks he's unseen he'll wipe off a tear
And now you know his story.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:16 PM UTC
What passing grief for those who fall in battle?
Only the merest murmur of the press
A paragraph between the tittle tattle
With all the latest news of someone's dress.
A soldier's single death is not dramatic
No bugle call, no serried rank and file
There's no glamour in stress that's post-traumatic
Compared to new pics of an actor's smile.
I never served in war. I have no right
To take the part of soldiers or their kin
But maiming, burning, death or loss of sight
Deserve attention and remembrance in
A land that still sends doomed youth off to fight;
A land obsessed with how stars get so thin.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 8:53 PM UTC
III
Out of the corner of my eye
I watch our rosin-graced bows
Rotate to our rhythm
Our bowties are fresh and
Pressed
Our vests clean and buttoned
I smile at Fred, who
Turns to grin at Hartley
What fine folk
Our wooden bridges will greet
Tonight
***
We are a dream
Hartley directing us like a grand symphony
We are voices to keep thoughts off of
The maiming waves
The melancholy miasma of
Starlight
Glints on our strings
People screaming, bellowing,
Fighting
But we play on, men
We play on.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
The raging ram roaming realms
A bittersweet tale if I say so myself
That ***** got a demon's tail
it ain't good for your health
That dude uses it as a flail
prevail is what is exhaled
That young ram spits heat
Aint talking about rapping
I speak literally
That young ram eyes red
But he ain't high
Stony past burning hooves
He smoky,
but it ain't the cannabis smell or shroud
It's the smell of hell
The young ram got a plan yeah to hustle
The young ram got a plan realm rustle
The young ram glides from land
to land to land
to empower some sort of man
or men or man
and I don't understand about this young lamb
he got a demon in his face
and he goes against the grain of sand
maiming himself just for the wealth
owning everything
coming out from stealth
the burning ram says retreat
or don't...
I eat I am elite
the burning ram says hold still
ill ****
a mill
the burning ram finds your mam
put it in her ****
hotter than the slavery of sam
the burning ram was foreseen by am.
the plan?
the men have ran, words spoken in a tablet somewhere.
Desolation, we are bare,
the ram looks at us in disgust
we are the crust on the earth
core exploding opening doors
the ram will be adored
pity because it represents disorder,
chaos, chaos,
killing says it once and the days are hazing
the ram bending the realm of man
mentally what a riot.
In the end, the ram is lost in the density of infinity.
An exploding croft farmed for human thought.
Far out
Fantasy
Mars droughts
Deseret land
Bars found
Feathered fans
of flames burnings lands
rays coming from the skies
Imploding,
Arising
Exploding
Mantle
Core
Arising
Like a
Titanic
Phoenix
Coming alive
Wicked eyes
Burning song
Live long
Live long
Another cycle
Ressurection
Recurring
Spirit in a dream
Molded by the first impression
Aroma tremendous
Weighs heavy on the pretentious
Live and learn and get burned
Breaking crust, core spewing lava as I arise
Hypnotised by my flow, I smirk when they say I am going to die
**** em now eat em later, chronic masturbater
Dilated eyes, 3 in which I don't mind, I own the mind I own the mind
Shove a trident down her spine and blow herb till the pine grime off here behind
Put the pedal to the extreme for miles on end gotta make my ends gotta make my ends till the end my friend oh friend oh
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
Waiting.
Swallowed by ochre sheets,
watching you
reveal the stars playing under your paper skin,
Outshining the ****** streetlights
peering through my
windowpane.
Calling
like sirens of melted viridian
from the shores of my doom.
Drifting,
(apparition? wraith? spirit?)
your halo of fire
splayed along my bed
Illuminated.
Moving
to the tempo
of telltale hearts
Conducting
an orchestra of motion
Strings and tendons stretched
Vibrating in harmony
Two frail bodies
Colliding
in the night, louder than
the most impressive percussion
Holding the last note on
a heavenly fermata
And the conductor never said stop.
Ringing
from the concert hall
bedroom like the sigh
sounded from a thousand
symphonic suns.
Fading
in the evanescent eruption.
The tendrils of night
Weaving
dread threads
into our heartstrings and
Plucking
their sour tune -
maiming our melody
and
hacking our harmony
til the piano
was but firewood
to an empty flame.
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 2:35 PM UTC