Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Holding.
onto myself, tightly,
along with my arms which seem
to be too short, too… thick.
They've always seemed to be
too slow, lacking expression.
so I gather them inside myself,
as this poor self
would firstly accept them as they are…
then it would paint them,
sculpt them,
adding them a finger or two,
until
my poor arms
start looking
like wings.
but they are not like any other pair of wings,
they do not have any feathers or scales.
these are enclosed wings,
splinted to their marrow,
closed as some misplaced umbrella,
like a chisel with its hammer. 
or they might be… fine embroidery
ready to cover
the holes in my soul.
This is why, occasionally, I would hold
Onto myself.

Tightly.
This is the original poem, written in my home language a few years ago.

Frângere

Mă strâng.
Pe mine, în mine,
Cu tot cu braţele ce-mi par…
Prea scurte, prea… butucănoase.
Mereu mi-au părut
Lente, lipsite de expresie.
Așa că le strâng în mine,
Căci minele meu, sărmanul,
Le acceptă, mai întâi,  așa *** sunt.
Apoi le vopsește,
Le sculptează,
Le mai adaugă un deget sau două,
Până când reușesc,
Sărmanele mâini,
Să arate și ele
A aripi.
Nu sunt, însă, aripi ca toate aripile.
Nu au pene mari ori solzi.
Sunt niște aripi închise,
încleșate în măduva lor,
strânse precum vreo umbrelă pierdută,
o daltă cu ciocan.
Ori… fină broderie,
Gata să-mi acopere
Găurile sufletului.
De aceea mă strâng ocazional.
Pe mine.

În mine.
NJ McGourty Jun 2013
Elk
Mounted in Ulster Mausoleum
you greet me with your rotted smile,
with oaken bones splinted into pose
with cloven feet riveted to the floor.

To the side your cratered eyes
that tunnel down to your cage
that watches of how we feed,
that recognises skin, fur and hair.

that will keep to see,
waves crash on mountain peaks
and we, holding hands in barren fields
and no one finding fossils in the mud.
Once upon a time
when time was splinted
time broken in mystic rhythms
the unbuckling of time

The kind years are now over
what you sow is what you reap
so know you are just liken to me
full of lies and conspiracy theories

Oh yes once upon a time
oh that blood line
not of body
but of soul


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
O, the fun, the fun and frolic
That The Wind that Shakes the Barley
Scatters through a penny-whistle
Tickled with artistic fingers!

Kate the scrubber (forty summers,
Stout but sportive) treads a measure,
Grinning, in herself a ballet,
Fixed as fate upon her audience.

Stumps are shaking, crutch-supported;
Splinted fingers tap the rhythm;
And a head all helmed with plasters
Wags a measured approbation.

Of their mattress-life oblivious,
All the patients, brisk and cheerful,
Are encouraging the dancer,
And applauding the musician.

Dim the gas-lights in the output
Of so many ardent smokers,
Full of shadow lurch the corners,
And the doctor peeps and passes.

There are, maybe, some suspicions
Of an alcoholic presence . . .
'Tak' a sup of this, my wumman!' . . .
New Year comes but once a twelvemonth.
Zachary Apr 2014
may
flogging molly
shattered teeth from
tongue ring probably
splinted filled lungs
smoked all the trees been done
rolled from tobacco leafs been tongued
springs now sprung
the sleeves rolled pun
from cigarette smoked
till ashed and toked
not from greens
but ammo gold
its almost yellow
in store now sold
i speak to tease
devil only a tempted soul
i took the sum of both his needs from the tether pole
stood back to watch him j.cole
bitchbitchbitch
now let it go
roll and roll
did the grass and bridge toll
flu in the till and money bank cold
its full of dum dums and tattered
your girl speaks full *****
and is fatter
then ten nuns crushes
on our holy fathers matter
Watched old and lonely walking this road
Naming the nameless ones from a chair
On three legs splinted up with bricks
I chipped the mortar out holding out
For footsteps in the dirt like the heel
Toe once heard, enduring over bounds
And now beating in the depths right
Next to death. Whispers softly at
Distance maybe only echoes from
The wind.

I hold out.
Fight fury in the doubt.
I hold out.
Binoculars looking.

Nursed and fed empty chests and stomachs
No less to give from my own abyss
Could crawl over nail bleeding for
The kin the world lost when it ended
Just to do my only due to give
Back what I know to show the wandering
You might survive in lack.
Oh I lack.

I hold out.
I hold out.
Binoculars up
Who could say where the wind went before we knew where it stopped?
Sombro Oct 2016
So it's night
So it's dark
So it's quiet
So am I.

Bathed in electric shadow
I push blues and whites
In cream curdled from clouds
And shades of grey and green.

In politics and paint you're born
'Welcome to the world.
You're going to make someone very happy.'
Me.

So how many days
Can you spend in nights?
Let me know, faithless print
For eyes watch us, praying fondly.

I get confused, often
Spraxically distopic in a utopian person
We'll succeed together
We'll fly on splinted wings.

I can write love poems too, you know,
But I'm only here for the future
So let's wait, together
And work for something we still breath for.

I'm here for you being here for me
And I grow branches in the night's silence.
An ode to breathlessness
And the chill of flush for the quiet.
A mixture of feelings in this one. It's late. I love painting. I'm optimistic for my future, but only if I work hard enough for it. This is a message to myself. Possessed.
Kara Lee Cook Apr 2014
She believes
in picket fences and two-story castles
in geometric hedges and manicured lawns
She relies on window blinds
and the convenient camera
that remains slightly out of focus
She spends her days
applying adhesive to china pieces
and polishing away revealing cracks
She spends her nights
nurturing splinted dreams
and convalescing hopes
So when he says
"I love you, it will never happen again"
She believes
No Oct 2014
His words were lies through teeth, and I should've known. Oh, I should've lnown.

Uncanny eyes, and stupid flattery, and how he made me feel so unique.

It's all so dumb, isn't it? I let him in despite my better judement, and started writing about his habit of never finishing cigarettes.

How he took whiskey in chipped glasses, and the bitter alcohol tasted like his own blood. And how things were always a demsotration of power, control, carelessness- rough hands and champagne smiles, and splinted knuckles, and mignight kisses.

And I guess now I know how much a person can realy ******* over.
Sorta wanna hate ya//sorta wanna kiss ya
NJ McGourty Dec 2012
I often pondered why we wore our studded boots,
When the mud was impenetrable with morning frost.
The same that misted our breath before our eyes,
that made our ice cube toes and splinted fingers,
that made us unable to tie the laces now lashing at our shins,
that made us dread every kick and made every catch distress.
There was no warm-up for our extremities, only pink S.O.S.
The probable pain of the individual,
With every pass lacking distance and every shot off the mark,
My belief was then what it is today,
that some are just not made for it or any other.
And now when I watch, I wish I never left.
To feel just once the joy of contest,
when the closest I can is...
a drink on Sunday afternoon.
No Nov 2014
You tried to kiss me and I pushed you away- you never really cared for the girls your lips touched, and I just couldn't bare to be forgotten.
Your splinted knuckles and your stupid smile got this anger harbored in my gut, and I've been puking butterflies for a while now and their wings have slashed up my insides, and it ******* hurts. It ******* hurts. It ******* hurts because I do care
stupid dude and stupid parties
Sanjukta Nag Oct 2015
The light that burns darkness
Still sleeping above faint sky

World is splinted with woods
Steel is constructing mankind

Removing the portraits of life
They play the game of smoke

Happiness crossed terminator
Reddening my eyes with moan

Let me discover my reflection
On pupil of Your evident soul

Lift me up with Your firm arms
For staircase demotes to Hell

Tend my existing solitude and
Whisper, “It’s still not too late.”
Bound to the stone walls of the dungeon
The chains cutting flesh
Dried blood down the arms
Darkness within the cell
A guard passes by kicking the wooden door
Echoing in the room
Bright orange eyes opening
Peering through the darkness
The chains rattle more as they are pulled
An angered scream heard through out the castle
Followed by a scream in horror
A splinted door
An empty wall with empty chains
A dead guard slumped to the ground
Fresh air taken in for the first time
A castle in ruins burning down
dani Mar 2015
Dripping blood and splinted knuckles
And those midnight eyes I love so much
And your mom might not care at all
But I do
I always do
And I'm tiered of tasting copper on your lips
West of a mutilated day, wormwood salts are scattered for some wild-chinned Controllers on a high pinnacle with viva vox in the Mandrake, Vernarth's house of Orion:

Saint John the Apostle says the proverbial Psalm: “In the lofty Cage, Gregorian sylphs, with skillful gestures and mania for cheering, are graced for coming to the Way of the cheap and venerable souls that are made up of the bodies of the evil-born on their railing. , in quagmire of swallowing spittle where the cold winter is banished, to jump from the cold oriental, having to walk with the elbows, and with the daring screams of the Sylphs that shake themselves among the foggy and fleshy tangle with rags and fur cloths flying smoothly through the tops of the oak trees in smoke to purge for Vernarth! Gospel, gospel in the barn of the delicate humus was felt, and that it was refracted in the refined forest with philosophical sacred love. Lord, all of us who are because we are, are you Lord ..., all in my exercises of loving gaze, are channeled by the indexes of my thumb to the little finger at the bottom of the sea, and float again from the little finger to the bottom of the surface. Waving in the transience of the world and holding back, Father God thunder, this with laryngitis when he outlines himself with the vast earthly sight, he covers with his right hand, the phlegm of ***** that made him drive an empty tremor, in my lack of security he testified by singing thousands and millions of choirs at this auction. The first ring of the profile will be carried by Jesus light, rubbing his back with some eyelashes of a drunk beetle, while the beetle will collect water between its extensions that will wail real needs of every morning albi - rosaceous that will travel in a circle towards the auditory of the Last auctioned saying: "As I have not to be where I was and was ..., if at night my beloved morning row impulsively and goes against it so as not to stumble into the night ...". Each cut piece of the dermis will have to be auctioned, I had Faith and the screenplay, encapsulated and embedded in each hope of the ramshackle flock, the impiety-weary ogre needed to stow his empty viscera with the cloth of the celestial kingdom, which at auction was beginning to squeeze and vanish when regurgitating smoothies and disintegrated spaces of belonging of the devotees of Vernarth. The writing is signed with lupus, this Lucia emanated from the morning resentment of skin envy, and from the massif drenched in anarchy and city archeology, lying hesitantly ..., as if the forest gave it some indication of rebirth, under the shadow of twinkling doubt, from the high front where they were nuanced over the engendered banners of truth, elucidating the forbidden and true matrix.

Adelimpia, Vernarth's grandmother, was squatting cutting the drool from the dwarf tree that lost a forage, at around 6:30 p.m. on the 39.9th day of a supposed 14th month of another dimension, almost winding up in a tangled series of productive hesitations and rituals, taking her victorious chariot in Lent where the teacher without felt traction, weave sprinkles of forgiveness on her distributor, starting her shaft and not her running engine, she already knew herself as a commoner with the wake of a ship without knowing where to go. Those who did not see themselves more backward intrigued to be part of the central bar of the rocker of the nymphs in their stadium, with a yawning lip where no one was invited. Mega-watt snitches go to the sacristan, breaking speeds of intangible entities that abide by her law, as a sage vilified in her secular realm, even in nowhere, the atmospheric larynx hissed widening through the flakes of the auctioned field, Joshua leaping with her. Cranky black horse Equus, with his anthropomorphic hooves, accelerated with action that put him among the lost belongings of the plateau, whose east limited him to two half-quarters of each other, and two-thirds slowing the sunset from ruby to ruby, brightening in the shades of green and green. Vernarth  Bernardolipo's father swallowed crops, from whose movements were born out of place gestures of residence, parturient fairies appeared emerging at once, or perhaps not emerging, the afternoon crushes the unplayable sun, Hugh and Anne covered their supra orbital eye areas, more towards a hillside where thousands of repertoires were being knocked down, and copious tableware with caked sugar, which seemed to reduce the acoustics from the beginning in what seemed solidly to fade to postulate in new shades of the weary rubbed rainbow, like thousands of shades doing the times of zascandil  in a curled comb, re-sprouting certain storm deities in the natural bow of the wind entangled in each stratus, sprinkling on the hectares of Possessions, standard deeds, sales orders, mutual funds, bonds ... the coffers and the earthly decomposed. Before each onslaught, a highly dense fog arose, highly ignored, anti-critical, and more disparaging of amassing a high scarcity with a local, in his quintals of his last bread for the flock. Lashes that exceed the grammage, foliage from leaf to leaf, from today until tomorrow, in a traveling satyr of dry leaves, "The Sphincter of the World will need Purgative ...".

Marathon of poisonings,… Lord, you have looked me in the eye; with your boat I will follow you, to your privileged perspiring cinnamon dock with various vociferous songs. What fared more than seven zeros, now they will be eaten by rodents, Lord attend my prayers, the pink mast has been sailing at several knots from the north, and it is rapidly losing its polar location, between verbs never traveled or driven, I dared to show off that the path of the gospel in small distant fragments will abound in infinite space, only the one that predominates will glide over my forehead with an accumulation of everything seen and that today in this sale; where everyone you own and care for, like a baby in front of a dissimilar kinship of good adventure and progeny that will leave your hands. "  

Etréstles says: "Soft and mellifluous presumptions ..., where do I have to look if nothing is heard? What is proposed and permeates the law of possessing and not, perhaps the strap reaches an infinite house, where the sun breaks down ..., the spout of my minimal rebirth slowly turned it into my reoriented defined cell. My grandfather Joshua fertilizes the new sales every day with his hooves bandaged with hemp, the sebum stones since they were so are already spirited circles, the hand of the maker is being compared with his tactile sense, Kaitelka's lungs, full of phosphate residues and sulphated, for the first time they milk in medium drops on their udders, although saying and what they prefer to assert of a worthy Down! If it were not, for his regal model of cetacean ostentation, he would not be in the Horcondising taking from today, towards the end of the curtain in the regular blushes, to create the great detachment, so necessary for the pulsating plain and purge his master Vernarth . The night covers it with sulfur oceanic satin, with the spauto of its jet and a magical moving game. Everyone was distracted when she circled over the routines of well-magnetized charms. More than two subjects were deprived of their well-placed jaw, when the overtime ran not crossing in the entire field in which she lived. It was time to unmask the interveners, the boatswain of the alfalfa field had been eating almonds with oil from the sole of a Joshua bototo shoe, she folded her wings at halftime to take a modest breath, to resume weak paths, deprived of confidence and not. To know who they would obey and to whom they would yield the fruit of their old and stock market work in the garden. Chaos for them, light of Lights, for those affiliated with the ruler who is Joshua, who will live behind a makeshift Patagua tree, erecting  aquisus tents and the dogmas of tomorrow. The magnificent concessions in the Horcondising massif continued to fall precipitously; some rummaged through their accounting almanacs, distanced and squandered their exquisite profits. The stagecoach is moving away, and the barrels of water were scarce, the aroma and tastes of roasted beef comes out over the bushes, the stores sway in a naive wind of blooming daisies, the sales were coming against the owners themselves, the taste of the laughter degraded their own present absence, the paraphernalia of the little birds on the carpet of the mountain plateau were, they began to do mercy of the tip in the exposed beams, the hundred feet with calluses came down from the semi-incinerated poles. Nothing smelled of pride anymore, just the last shadow of Joshua's Chief Sheriff; Vinicius, who thinned out the spotlights of the semi-strongmen still trying to collect his heavy wealth, now that among clouds of heavy cargo they went to give him only one habit to try to fit his body, just to wear his outfit. They looked, looked and kept looking at his octogenarian tearful sapro- genito dream, where the first dream ends, and his exile begins. Vinicius, locks the door, and starts drinking mate tea; while screams of those bad jackals were heard fighting for their inherited evils, in manners of not conquering those who lose a dream of their patriarchal courting-love, under the shadow of the most powerful bush for the rest of their lives in groves. Crumbs come off the beards of Joshua, his galvanized knife cuts multiform slices, to feed everyone equally and continue the purge of Vernarth "

The most desolate deity came; he walked in full sun, shelled and unattached, full of elongated bridles and with haste in his eyes. But not in its strides, thousands of years passed, and it brushed with my lost zeal in the quarrels of the Argolica, in the salinized and rotten feces of Eurymedousa, with its snowy and tricolor feet, hooded with its goods! , therefore, unable to sustain its own air from its nasal socket, dropping it likes brave foam that fell in the fired distance. Bad cooked fruit, with the flavor of a sleeping cinnamon stick, mitigating in its kind balsam, frayed wind yielding 360 and so many more suns, before the last one that I carry on my limbs ends. The end of the End began, in the seven ends adorning my steps. The obscene deities came, with their rebuilding geo music, breaking endometriums of goddess’s mobs and their almost massacred Pillan Mapu, among thousands that were, thousands of nowhere they are ..., in a today already anesthetized. He lies in the stench of the corrugated floor, in the wooden handles and rods stacked on the floor gesturing; the god Pillan Mapuche, under a generic vault of sleep falls into lethargy on the faces, leaving his unintelligible hollow free; and its unbalanced environment, crossing the basaltic moraine that circulated one day from the placenta of the fatigued cemetery. Dreams in kilos everywhere of pressed ducks, with dense covering and grasses on the hooves of bucephalos, crucible, living trident and extraordinary flowers ***** in floating skirmish, with dosing globules, thirst that is born from the whiteness of the first day in confessional liberation, cell of white with a looted look, shields of osculation, like icy air that transpires his ninth life and that is born from his ninth death, splinted in the face of death that mutilates his fingers when crossing his genes of perfidious and monkish plot of a life bypass. I sing or I do not sing, I lack my throne from where I observe the glances with time and impudence, possessing everything behind the back of the macabre time in counter-steps of tender golden plague, in foreign skin growing on my right blanket, from so much passing lights with cracked night outings, walking towards me, between roads and between Monday nights with faces of long and sinuous unctuous branches, with great step and size. Now I have to draw the curtain, on light lying in the shadow of an opening scattered in warm beets. With sincerity ..., and mistake there is no will to germinate in them, I will be born without being with them, to be meaningless without them ..., and that it is above other absences, with great eloquent and numerical weight on absent.

They are still plastered, washed out and with the frizzy pigments of a parnassus Paradise, where it has been intervening over its bloodless headers. Joshua walks thousands of steps on with his Equus skull, like a meridian slipping off certain rods of decay. Thus they all floated in the cephalous porous airs, with great airs of Cain collapsing on Abel recomposed in reserves of a millennium that fell twisted and stunned, captivated by an ominous word. Sendal covered themselves in bandurrias that covered the melodious icebergs of exulting individuals and swollen with passion, with their rummaging and thunderous noises going along with their flowers to the sea dissipated. My paternal grandmother was delimited; she paraded from the openings with cough-covered mounds of the frozen volcano, growing reflective slits of dense gradation in the nervousness of the overhang and angry sighing heat, in all the vertiginous and venerable spirits numbed by the darkness of so many sorrows on their bluish heads. Eurymedousa, already ill-fated to continue in Rhodes, appeared on stilts and with agonizing lights and yielding to the crossbows of the centaurs gagged by the Beauties; they consisted of their seesaws before the agreement with the Master, who gave us her Hellenic manifestos, and no less to others. My uncle King Arthur carried news of the locked consonants of his string and with a riding crop for his steed, tangled in rows that tore his face into small abscesses on his face, which were superimposed on those capillaries of the sweat of Heaven. Blessed Lord, the knee had grafts of golden steel, the horns of the radio sol brego that were broken in its metaphysical pregnancy, and its food collector that had solid gold baths towards a tabernacle fussing through its mucous orifices of alfalfa with the a flavours of irradiated cattle . He paraded with his loving mount flying down his track and kept clueless, at times he ran so swiftly that he crossed evil omens with Joshua, he was seen as weak and white in insulting slanders, Tamayo; his friend, who was a Talamite native, followed him on horseback, his son rode the sheep every summer, passing wool of pure holy insignia of a healthy man.
Along the banks of the reeds, he came riding on a donkey, Edward my paternal uncle, the third of Adelimpia, came three steps before his donkey, and he counted three times before riding him with provisions for good waters, wrapped in an energetic fire of Saturday tobacco in his mouth in mourning, who lovingly watching over himself, looking at today towards a peak for his sheep, looking at them for a manger of borders and tiny hunching phrases of black song about legends of the offender, which tempted to show off invading their fields. He is to the right of his mother Adelimpia, and under the rib of his father Bernardolipo overflowing, giving sugar to the colt Dolly in the sunsets, bequeathing affection with syrup, and a thousand compliments in December of 9,900 AD, Joshua, I remained in shreds of pageantry and endless lives, I always said, my lady, here I bring you a peasant's soup in flower of primed twisted canvas, in this three-year period I must call them to dinner in past lands with sweet potatoes to eat and candlesticks of flying seeds, with eager candies of a crack and their thirsty mouths. Gentlemen, I am Edward, their son, I want to sleep in your arms, after escaping from my worst perfidious toothless bite that still hurts inside. After eating great cholesterols from all over the world, amidst the tools of my children I am, always putting a tobacco leaf caught in the scrawled pieces and in great coinciding strokes, in circles dancing to throw away the bad and broken places badly thought and done. When I get to the end I will cling to the Joshua habit and shout not to leave me alone in the middle of this world, without toasted flour, cheese and tobacco. I am not a malignant man, I am only like those of us who are far below, feeling footprints on my spine, and I do not tell my wife Molly, so that she does not lack chickpea flour for our children wrapped in regrets and ***** with hunger and light blue in goodness, like saints and media, but in the end with clear blue water in my glasses. I invite everyone to my table to dine on oceans and worlds of clear celestial light, because with this hand I break this piece; I am the Son of Adelimpia and the supplier. They brought me in anemone branches when the Lord's headache invaded him, when he felt nails in his hands, to the east of Eden, without steps or turgid edges and a rough runaway palfrey”

The Horcondising massif turned into a great mountain, Edward was in the limestone of some potters and followers of Joshua molding him, they began to bait the rope that merges the mountain range, with the valley at the foot of all the mapus, mud flowing from the monastic floods , here they polisonated in the stony atonement of each lamentable trunk. They say;… faramalla  demonion, would be with a Silfife facing the mass of the vital obstacle, with faded coffee fiber, smeared in wine and bread, with eternal vintage vine. Luccica, Vernarth's mother, tackles familiar corners, with anointed frames of fiction in irrational ergonomics…; in numerous steps that will reach your distinguished heart. An ocean of doubts has fallen due to the inheritance that has precarious injuries, of battered egos and scrubbed by undue ignorance. Mountain delusions and manias, which run through the fibrillated vigils of some soft ropes and their abundant bristles like the choppy of an echidna escaping as it tingles by my twisted temples ”. The Horcondising  tam tam modulates through its crater and its pale face of a perpetual cell. Towards the forgiveness of the primordial ones and the commiseration of the orb burying itself in creation, this sacred and over the pale Sudpichian region will rest, in the roots growling in capillaries of the carbonated earths and in its badly wounded footprints. Horcondising is in quarantine, the elevation of the constellations are hyperillusionible, they migrate Along with Albalalhue and Carnivorous, the succeeded nymph that extracts exudation from a flushed match in the palm of some ideas on rollers, higher up and on angular from other right angles. Toiling with her hands, and rubbing possessions with her mazote and her patronage full of rakes.

Etréstles says: “Beyond all metal of hatred of every god not heard, beyond all evil of timid hatred I have not heard. I hold the playful phrasing of Edenic song, which calls us in voices full of long journeys, especially on this day fading. Through the hollow, belts and picket rings breaking the timid lights of the last sunset.  Cardinals in envelopes of fragile strengths, mountains with borders and deposits in the last voluminous plagues on the mason's eye.  Binding themselves in a pile, with saffron nails in their ears, with moths that run through the unforgivable morphologies. Do not lose life, abandon all noisy fight in coalition with the uninhabited *** of coins, there are forty days left to say goodbye to the god Faramalla, who lies with closed tec, limps to his lost pupils, and the sky swirls over his day when nothing not fit for any drinkable air with light bulb. Horcodising loses millimeters within minutes and rising, towards harvests to harvests, they lose merged schedule of a time without a past, reviling themselves from a present of consanguineous evil with an abstinent future. Luccica; Vernarth's mother, she is a sylph dragged by the tempest moraines, being detached to a contemplation and intake of life. The membranes of the accordion burst, and between brittle passageways crying without union, succumb to the teachings of foolish fate, Luccica as a portion owes its origin to the sea, taking its physiognomic bark from a seal specimen of aqueous flattery, to frize it on a similar surface umlauts on the "u", with phosphorescent and indeclinable forges, making it a beautiful maternal nymph, like the beautiful female picking up a moon in her arms, clinging to a new hallucinatory satellite to engender. "Live and talk with your peer, her dazzling sneaks in and laughs at this prominent queen, to exhale on those who observe her."

End Ellipsis Chapter XXXI
Horcondising  Castle Reign - Sudpichian
Transversal Valley  the Ferments - Parapsychological Regression
Mandrake, the Wild Auction
The wooden wheels stumble and groan
slipping clumsily on the muddy ground
wounded soldiers sit with heads bent down
listening to the shells being fired all around

The creaking and constant shuddering
dire views of splinted Ash and Oaks
burnt trucks are all about their path
and fuel filled air that makes them choke

None of them usher a word, some stare blankly
this their bitter nightmare retreat
this wretched column of twenty carts
faces grey and broken by defeat

The horses snort sweating profusely
dragging their wretched bedraggled cargo
this is all that is left of a mighty army
many pray homeward bound, they meet no foe

Down to the beach soon they will reach
there to meet others in silence
who look for signs on the distant horizon
for boats of relief from this violence

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris


© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Upon my breath, the misery of all the story told,
never spoken softly
but bellowed in the soul.
The deeper breaths I've breathed with you,
rich sweetness in the sum of sighs,
have splinted broken dreams
and lent your light to my darkened eyes.
Gwen Taylor Mar 2014
I am a soul, woven into the floorboards of a house that once carried people, but now carries dust. I lay with secrets and lies buried deep below the footprints left behind.
I have little hope that time will be regained and if I have to —with remorse and regret— I will piece the tiny fragments of hostility back together until my skin rubs raw and my fingers bleed—
as it was I who so selfishly drove the life away.

Like a screen, so horribly attached to the wall, a life is played from start to finish, and I wonder—ponder of prospects;
was I crazy? —or— could I still be?
The dust bunnies, hidden below splinted furniture, the spiders, in their silken webs, and other souls that lay at rest seem to laugh at the screen.
Are they laughing at me? —or— could they be seeing something different, like their own, drab lives?

Silence consumes me suddenly and I feel weightless—
like an octopus floating dreamily and subtly through the depths of the sea
There is no laughter —no screen can be seen anymore hanging on the wall that has holes though it and no life is playing before my tired eyes.
Like an apocalypse, the outside is dark and grim, and it is hot and sticky —like the days in summer where it rains.
Like an apocalypse, I hear no noise, I see no movement and I smell nothing.
But coming from a soul, so rapidly left behind, who’d expect anything more?
© all rights reserved
Lexi Dvorak Dec 2014
We are nothing but birds,
With broken wings.

We are the kids,
You would be nervous around.

But we are the kids,
We are most comfortable around.

We are the birds with wings,
Snapped in two.

But Anne,
Her wings have healed and she will fly.

And Max,
His wings are splinted,
But they work.

Veronica,
Her wings were never completely impaired,
But now she flies gracefully.

Zach,
His wings are impaired,
But he has learned how to use them.

Sabrina,
Her wings are lifting her higher then before.

Mitchelle,
His wings are lifting him,
His troubles leaving him.

Sarah,
Her wings have lifted her troubles away nicely.

These people,
Will live to fly another day.
brooke Feb 2013
We have been the self
casters of broken hearts,
without prize sometimes
but there is credit for the
things we have fixed on
our own, you fixed this
on your own. Reset and
splinted, healed and set

free
(c) Brooke Otto
Don't think you'd ever understand
The pain beneath my skin,
The hurt that crawls up like guilt
The promises splinted like my soul.
All and all but empty words
I cussed my stupidity,
Hating me for who I was
The failure I made of myself.
Why do I **** up
Why so perfectly
Why anyone, why me.
Kìùra Kabiri Jan 2017
From this moment on I set my eyes on you
My optics locked into your twinkling stars:
Eyes innocent and compassionate;
A face soft and ******:

A cherub’s-seraph’s pedigree
My heart leapt with enthusiasm
My soul raced with altruism
My spirit splinted with your mysticism
My body yearned for your divine deism
My divinity wanted only you-there and then!

The sun stopped journeying and yearning and warming
I wished for it no more to light my days and ways-terraces and spaces
The moon stood still denied of its gracious gleaming and glimmering  
I wished for her no more to light my naked nights and surly sights
I only wished for you my love, you-my places and spaces to shimmer

The stars looked livid and tired in their splashing sprinkle twinkle
I wished no more for them to shine and twine-radiate and illuminate
I only wished for you, to be lost in those your lovely innocent eyes look
To last glow and go blind in the lovely looks of your immaculate love book

When you whispered and hummed to my ears and fears
In that Gabriel’s Incarnate Annunciation salutation:
“Hail my love, full of grace, do you truly love, to deserve my love….!”  
O Lord! To this venerable voice my simple soul I sincerely bequeath:
My heavy-heart’s, covetous-laden burden, I humbly abandon

And when you massaged and relaxed my spirit
With that inviolate and immaculate heavens’ smile
O Heaven! Why are you so far hidden?  
When you touched and cached my heart
In those soft and slender, tender and fonder fingers
O coveting! Why are you so forbidden?  

When you caressed and soothed my soul
In those polite palms and arms, smooth as baby’s gentle bums
I ceased to live in this earth and took off to your heaven
I existed no more in this hell of a lot ridden  
I set off on a journey to your Eden Garden

You soothed my specter with your peaceful charms
You quelled my elf with your soft, sweet dreams
You opened in me an unquenchable chasm
That could not get enough of your enzymes  
An insatiable gorge always seeking for your calm warm

From that moment on-
To this moment here
My love, my lady!
You have always been
My soul’s only queen

I have always loved you the same:
With the same zeal and feel-
Loyal and altruistic!
And I will always love you so
True, to the day I die!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
just a fracture,
To be splinted,
to try to fix,
But if not,
Or malunion.
Re-break it.
Fracture is Soo like divorce. First we try to fix it but than re-break or even let it be.
Rae E Smart Oct 2017
I know I am the burden
The weight of heavy stone
Annoyance and regret
The strain of splinted bone
Mishap and misfortune
Broken record prone
If only I could find a way
To lift this weary load

To you I am frustration
My mirror suggests disgust
I wish my presence meant relief
A face that displays trust

I understand such hesitation
Avoidance at the helm
For why would I expect conviction
When I can't even trust myself?
Jessica May 2019
The bare branches braced,
for the hurricane that came with the winter wind and rain

The tree shivered in the sharp outburst of wind
that cut playfully into its vulnerable twig like limbs
snapping their bony foundations,
reducing them to limply hang from a stringy piece of flesh.

The branches swayed treacherously now,
a few, battered strings acted like a lifeline,
yet the barrage of attacks made by the season never halted.

The tree quivered at the site of where its limbs might go,
pulled under by the pouncing waves and splinted by the dark jaggerdy rocks,
which would both giggle in a chorus so loud,
it drowned out even the winds howling sound.
I wear 1 glove to keep Mongolian corpse-eatin' birds from my bone
I got 1 glove to stop vicious Mongol birds from tearing on me bone
I wear 1 glove so Mongol birds will stop peckin' on my whale bone
as a careful inventory of the bone suffices to cull big bone ungrown
because for D.A.R.P.A., blue, splinted bones are top-secretly shown
'cause for D.A.R.P.A., splinted/splintered crones are proudly shown
before death links Đặng Lệ Quân & me minus 2 mortal lives blown
Ernaline Aug 2020
stolen kisses
shiny veneers

splinted mirrors
silver tears

overturned tables
wasted years

tearless sighs
angry sneers

perpetual scars
haunting fears

— The End —