"succors" poems
slow slips his sighing.
she succors his heart,
her shades of seduction,
his harmonious hearing
her hushed sonata
sighs softly in stillness
quiet quintessence,
he yearns her
melodious marvels
moonlight makes for
merry mischief,
consorted in concert.
quickly comes the crescendo
of their close cadence
luminescence laments
their languid leaving
melancholy moon
shares hushed solitude
in silence, so sweet
--bruised orange
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 2:06 PM UTC
I’m a witch when in the fire:
the taste, just like acid
dropping down the hole.
I’m a witch when I get out of here,
so devastated was the
dilapidated Ferris wheel.
I’m a witch when my mother comes
and succors me along,
but she don’t like
what I’ve been doing
at the witching hour--
only time I got to raise my flag.
I’m a witch when they come in
to make a martyr out of
flesh and bone. I live for the day
the people gather round’
and weep for the child of
ignorance and recreational hate.
I’m a witch when the riot
raise their fire. I’m unholy
so the temple must go down.
One, three, five, six,
give me, give me all of it.
I can take a lot, you see,
my will is unrelenting.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
~~~
spindles filled with tattered thread
looms of rusty wood
a shuttle made of ochre
sheds stains of finger's blood.
dusty from their constant use
mem'rys make their mark
pain that succors the abuse
creating shadows stark.
time with distance weavings
all snarled with great care
i sit the loom a'weaving
the woof and warp...
despair
(c) soulsurvivor
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
in this stressful society we have,
so much slanders,
sins,
scandals
have been scrutinized *over
and over
again*
for the satisfaction of sardonic,
scornful,
"sacred"
disparagers.
nothing shocks me more
than the so-called "spectacular" sculpturing of others
based on the dehumanizing standards
of mankind.
shackled
by the scalding hands of screeching vermins,
why do we keep on letting ourselves be scarred--
stuttering,
shuddering,
screaming
*for help*
because simple succors are never,
have never been,
will never be
enough?
why
do we keep letting ourselves be singled out
as stigmas
when "failing" society's endless scans for
superficial perfection?
(how sickening.)
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC
Why I am an Atheist......
This is the way,
That is the way,
For all ages we cry,
Often lost in those minced glib,
Strangled to our souls death.
Why should I tread these 'Ways'- ,
In my paralyzed (pedestrian) state,
When all 'ways' are to that - If
It Meets at heavenly abode?
If I harbor not -
Unsolicited darkly thoughts,
And exhume all my vile acts,
For whom should I solicit -
A for fending God?
Every time, in eons,
A new God is born;
In whose comprehension,
He dwells?
In whose delight -
He charms!
And in whose folly -
He succors?
Not all the Gods blesses you,
Or resides in their crowns-
To wipe your tears,
Of toils and perils!
None can ever be at rest,
With life's gauntlet let.
No dead souls by their wont,
Tells us the truth-
Of impending days- or
To one who awaits.
Often, whose God dies young?
Brings no mellifluous life to breath.
A God, if lives within us,
How munificently,
He Strides.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 2:25 AM UTC
Death speaking in tongues,
As a flame of fire tongue
Waiting like a waiter to receive the glory of shame through men
For they act like hen
What will I gain gain from this question WHEN?
Where every huddles of beast has turned to a gist
I respect the voice of the wilderness,
For the desert has wildered away in my twinkle like a disappearance star
Waiting to see the moon in no avail of its angle
Calling the angEL of angLE
To stand for me in the darkest path
Pushing me away from the rocky parts
The big eye is at its centre of equilibrium
Having its measurement at the pendulum of the cambium
Recording the result as insult
For the innovations has turned to renovations
For I know I have a salvation that will take me to the sanctuary
The pad has turned to bad
For the hope is now in between the spoke of a bicycle
Reason me ohhh God
For my people are now dog
Trying to dodge from the dirge of the succors
Belittling the scorpion as a tiny beast of the breast
That will rest in the chest of the heavenly bed…
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 11:09 PM UTC