"tombstones" poems
TWO loves had I. Now both are dead,
And both are marked by tombstones white.
The one stands in the churchyard near,
The other hid from mortal sight.
The name on one all men may read,
And learn who lies beneath the stone;
The other name is written where
No eyes can read it but my own.
On one I plant a living flower,
And cherish it with loving hands;
I shun the single withered leaf
That tells me where the other stands.
To that white tombstone on the hill
In summer days I often go;
From this white stone that nearer lies
I turn me with unuttered woe.
O God, I pray, if love must die,
And make no more of life a part,
Let witness be where all can see,
And not within a living heart.
17.7k
i stand in a graveyard.
i see, though i am blinded by the past.
i see millions of tombstones surrounding me,
each one has words i dare not read.
i am scared,
and i am alone.
though i am not alone, there are ghosts who hold faces that are familiar around me.
they tell me that the light shall come soon.
they promise me this.
i do not believe them,
i have been fooled too many times.
and as i walk throughout this graveyard i come to a realization;
no matter how many ghosts stand by my side,
i am the only one who is of real flesh and bone.
who stands above the ground and not beneath it.
i cannot come to terms if this is good or not.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
We wandered our gazes
to the semidarkness Illuminated
above our sight.
Looking at the allurement
that were now empty caskets
hanging on tombstones of lights,
clinging to there eventual demise.
Lying on the earth,
we felt at peace.
Knowing we were one day
to be woven within its fabric,
empty shells of pebbles lost in
a lake of timeless moments.
We would be seashells on its shores
gently corroding with each wave.
till we were grains of eternity
variations of us everywhere.
Looking upon each other,
our hands clasping like a
momentary fissure
sealing a grain of moments
between ourselves.
*"Death is a moment where life
is cherry a falling slowly,*
For we each hang on delicate
moments,
growing till we do as everything
does. Descending till we evaporate
from reflections and thought.
"Where all echoes who've already past,
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 5:43 AM UTC
The head losing itself
A rainforest
Lake in the heart
Hundred tombstones
Named Narcissus
They Echo
Icy, bluish lungs
Pallid violet nails
Lips still yet loving
Salty bamboos
Necrophilic whistles
Siren's footsteps
Illegal loggers
Burying selves alive
Love, love that is
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 8:29 AM UTC
She tends her cactus garden,
beads of perspiration,
works with a maniacal absorption.
One of many visitors she receives
yet looking at each other's eyes
dawned this quick realization;
similar maniacal obsession and passion.
A tornado she was, self created,
in her swirl uprooted
many huge trees, even tombstones
by the sheer force unleashed,
with her poetic flourish.
Love of a crazy woman
with effervescent creative surge,
is a magical portion
brewed by a witch ,
in her forbidden rituals, night after dark night.
Injured by conjugal lust, unrequited
prompted to walk the garden path
holding hands of lovers, one after the other,
who took her to wilderness, deeper and deeper
and at the end to a blind alley,
life was a tribal dance,
from where return was impossible.
She never had to apologize to her mate,
who for all the world to see, remained with her
till he went behind the curtain.
Imagine a life, a walk
through a cactus garden,where sharp thorns would nip,
searing pain and bleeding has its moments of exhilaration.
Life pulsated wildly for her on such notions,
(There were many who walked with her for each adventure)
They met, poetry flowed like wine,
she had a rare warmth seen in women of such creative combinations,
she feared nothing, but her truth made many squirm.
Midnight dances of her and her friends gypsy bunch,
attained such fame.But all ended in a great betrayal,
she was deep down a naive woman,
craving for love, to immerse in it.
On occasions she would change identities
at will, she was one but many
there wasn't any one like her before or after.
They would walk through the witch's cactus patch,
somnambulists reciting poems,
when they are together, in private,
cactus spine criss- crossed his skin
her nail wrote poems on the back
of the lover of the moment,
each one bled like soldiers in combat.
One monsoon night brought
everything to an end,
the cactus garden was trampled by
big grey wolves, the journey
met with an abrupt end.
What is she, cactus herself,
vampire, witch, lover indefatigable,
with the heart of a lion?
Erotomaniacal poetic surge,
yet a fantasy in flesh and blood?
**They buried her
in a cactus garden away from town
not even ten people arrived to mourn,
not even all her lovers, had time that afternoon.
Her songs of pain, pierced hearts and they
still shed tears,
cactus garden, it was---
the metaphor perfected by her life and death.**
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold…
May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance,
unsought, unheard, undreamt:
JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !
☻
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
The bars had opened just that morning
turned him loose again
he wandered blindly down the street
just lookin for a friend
The tombstones filled with empty graves
were drinking in the park
so he sat to quench his thirst
and lingered well past dark
THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN
EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED
THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES
YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES
All the barkeeps know his name
they've tossed him out before
so he cracks a pint in silence
next to the corner store
He's drank with everyone in town
they all pay for his drinks
a legend to both young and old
at least thats what he thinks
THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN
EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED
THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES
YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES
The rising sun must weigh a ton
pins him to the ground
inside his skull a screaming hell
that never makes a sound
He always smells like whiskey wether
day or if it's night
a bottle stashed inside his coat
the daydream goes allright
he lives a dream thats long since passed
he toasts to a full cup
the nightmare there when he awakes
he simply drinks it up
THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN
EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED
THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES
YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
A mother whispers into the fire of Night
I hold a match
I hold Yarn
I Am Wool
Shrinking to the formation
The intricate designs of your rib cage
of your brother's belly
of your Grandfather's waist
Am I simply a fool?
And Who
Doth I ask This question too?
A Torn book
A tattered sonnet of Man's sore feet
blistered eyes that are Green
That are Brown
That are Blue
I Lay with myself Tonight
I am Awake
I am Loud
In your Night
I Am the Janitor beneath the hardwood floors
of your Dream
I am the
Poorly Waged Electrician
With Shoes that resemble an old dog
I Light Your Highway
Your Street
Your Morning coffee
your
cigarette
Am I The Child?
I fall in love with women I see on the streets
Their Wavy hair
like a French sea
Her pale complexion
the Brown Glimmer in her eyes
And I paint on her on Tombstones
On Coffee Mugs and on carpets rolled up for the Dumpster
At Nights
I prefer to dream awake
and sit with a BathTub of words
of stories that melt like cheese
that stiffen like Ginsberg ****
that Shriek and Strum like Tom Waits stomach when he starves on backroad streets
And when I cannot
reproduce
I make love to a woman
And a poem is made
and I kiss her
and my lips say 5 am
and I wish her not to go
But the Dog
is waken by Robins
by the Pigeons
by the digestion of night to day
by the Greek Gods and Goddess' Light
That Falls down
like long hair of woman you have so longed for
and you kiss her chest
And there is no Death
There is no Sleep
or ****** addicts or gasoline or paved roads or shaved faces or mothers or Dostoevsky or Beethoven
There is just her
and you run your fingers across her skin
through her hair
She is the bottom of the Ocean
You are a homeless crab
a Shellless Clam
falling down
down
down
to the bed of the great ocean
and there she lays
With a reflection of Youth and Beauty
And her complex simplicity makes me think of
me as a boy
running behind brick collapsed business buildings
Kissing a girl behind church
Buying Icecream with Josh in Winter
That's what a woman does
She erases Death
from the palms of your hands
and your thoughts
and you sink
to the bottom
and you watch the Coral
The other fish
swimming along
and you laugh
Because you do not know Death
And Death does not know you.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
Too many times
I've been pushed aside
On the back burner
My whole **** life
But I wanna be the fire
That lights your soul
I want a raging, blazing
Inferno
Sparking flames
Making changes
In the chemistry
A little oxygen
So I can breathe
A lot of hydrogen
So you can believe
We're floating on air
Particles you can't see
Like love
It's a mystery
A theory
Of who's meant to be
And who's left suffering
That's destiny
I'm creating
Breaking
Changing the flames
Into ashes
And graves
With no names
Just broken hearts
On tombstones
And no chance
To restart
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
After my mother died, my room was filled with roses. When the flowers died, my room was filled with their sweet, rotten stench for weeks on end; it sunk into my pores and into my DNA and years later, I still smell like dead roses.
My sister confuses this smell with dead lilies.
A bouquet of red roses was placed atop my mother’s coffin as it lowered six
feet down into the earth. After the roses died, I wonder if my mother could
smell them like I did? I wonder if she still smells them, or, more likely, how long it took for the roses to disintegrate into dust like her?
We don’t talk about the body after death because we don’t like to be reminded of how vulnerable we really are. In high school, a boy asked me to prom using roses and lilies that were all different shades of reds and oranges and yellows like fire. Lilies like funerals and tombstones and formaldehyde.
I don’t think he meant to remind me of death. I don’t think his intention was to place me in a casket similar to my mother’s with its pink padded walls. I don’t think he realized that’s where I went when I saw his basement covered in bouquets of hellfire. I think he meant the roses to be romantic,
but I looked at them and saw my mother’s putrefying face, saw her intestines eaten away by savage bacteria and bugs, saw her eyelids drying out and peeling back like black and dead and withered lily petals. Embalming does not prevent decomposition, only prolongs it. I have embalmed my mother's
memory in the shape of a teal notebook. I cannot tell if it has
begun to decay or not.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
I see around me tombstones grey
Stretching their shadows far away.
Beneath the turf my footsteps tread
Lie low and lone the silent dead -
Beneath the turf - beneath the mould -
Forever dark, forever cold -
And my eyes cannot hold the tears
That memory hoards from vanished years
For Time and Death and Mortal pain
Give wounds that will not heal again -
Let me remember half the woe
I've seen and heard and felt below,
And Heaven itself - so pure and blest,
Could never give my spirit rest -
Sweet land of light! thy children fair
Know nought akin to our despair -
Nor have they felt, nor can they tell
What tenants haunt each mortal cell,
What gloomy guests we hold within -
Torments and madness, tears and sin!
Well - may they live in ectasy
Their long eternity of joy;
At least we would not bring them down
With us to weep, with us to groan,
No - Earth would wish no other sphere
To taste her cup of sufferings drear;
She turns from Heaven with a careless eye
And only mourns that we must die!
Ah mother, what shall comfort thee
In all this boundless misery?
To cheer our eager eyes a while
We see thee smile; how fondly smile!
But who reads not through that tender glow
Thy deep, unutterable woe:
Indeed no dazzling land above
Can cheat thee of thy children's love.
We all, in life's departing shine,
Our last dear longings blend with thine;
And struggle still and strive to trace
With clouded gaze, thy darling face.
We would not leave our native home
For any world beyond the Tomb.
No - rather on thy kindly breast
Let us be laid in lasting rest;
Or waken but to share with thee
A mutual immortality -
4.4k
I did my part, by staying in.
So effective, bored.
It’s a sacrifice.
The soul is very passionate.
The isolating, the flattening.
Foraging coercion.
For Immuno compromised persons!
Stay in your homes.
Prevent the increase in tombstones!
Then pat yourself on the back.
Knowing all the people you have saved!
Staying in, flattening the curve again.
Outcome, only time will tell.
Feeling relieved I’m not the only one!
And the stupidity will **** us all.
Hoarding toilet paper from the aisles.
But no one else can see.
The effects this has on the elderly.
Social distance, social distance, social distance.
Social distance, social distance, social distance.
Oh, there are arrogant ******** not taking this seriously.
But there are others doing their part.
The nurses and doctors have gone mad.
With people taking all their masks.
But when we cure it all,
The faith will be restored,
Who hopes we will be blessed?
We could start over,
Just cover your mouth when you cough!
It’s that simple.
Now there’s time to watch streaming platforms.
Helpfulness, committed.
To doing what I can.
I’m not the only one.
And the stupidity will **** us all.
Hoarding toilet paper from the aisles.
But no one else can see.
The effects this has on the elderly.
Social distance, social distance, social distance.
Social distance, social distance, social distance.
The limits of the research.
The limits of the research.
The limits of the research.
Fake news outlets (social distance)
Only check AHS, for info (social distance)
Your support to fund research would help (social distance)
Can’t stop the spread (social distance)
If you don’t stay home (social distance)
This is a must (social distance)
I’m not the only one.
And the stupidity will **** us all.
Hoarding toilet paper from the aisles.
But no one else can see.
The effects this has on the elderly.
And the stupidity will **** us all.
Hoarding toilet paper from the aisles.
But no one else can see.
The effects this has on the elderly.
The limits of the research.
The limits of the research.
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 1:51 PM UTC
The honey in the lion sounds like a delicious thing––
a gentle balm capable of subduing
the cruellest of monsters.
According to the stars and tattooed,
you fancied yourself king of the jungle––
lazy in hot African afternoons.
Golden and tawn with sleepy sun-gold eyes,
shaggy mane, muzzle red with
the blood of a gazelle.
Did you think me such easy prey?
Or was I so much fermented honey,
only a sweet intoxicant.
Sun warmth seeps from jungles of cold concrete.
I mistook your gargoyle wings
for those of a guardian angel’s.
I overlooked your rough skin, your
crooked hawk nose and your skinny ribs,
and assigned fine things in you that didn’t exist.
So duped, I acquiesced to your slimy kiss.
Your mouth a neglected cemetery,
teeth a row of mossy tombstones.
Vampire. Incubus. Your seduction like grotesque death.
You named me tempest in a teacup,
but I was the eye of the storm.
Until the night the eye was eradicated,
and the storm blew in,
striking me dumb with your sound and fury.
But no spattered blood and no spreading bruise
to be found in the pattern of the kaleidoscope.
No cause for alarm.
Today I am lost in a picture show,
a beautiful world coloured by nostalgic past.
Women’s lips the vivid red print of a velvet valentine.
Head in the Clouds, I fantasize about a certain scene.
Because you think violence is ****
retaliation – ********** in my dream.
Give me an eye for my eye,
for all the eyes you plucked, from women and breadwinners.
Give me blood running down your back, sweet as honey.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
Walk with me, to the cemetery tonight.
Your hands so cold, in the warmth of the night.
Step over tombstones, and lonely graves, I left my heart at sea, caught in the waves.
Grab my hand, show me connection, show me love and show me affection.
And while we danced, you turned to ash, my memories will remain at the cemetery at last.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
Give me some other world to sip at,
this one is diluting.
This is how we dance
A row of tombstones; economics?
Market of waste, reinvent me.
Aligned, invisible, gothic
Encased in amber necklaces
Suspended animation
I will wait for years. Frozen
for renewal.
At every chance, the prospect of lightning
calms the heart.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 8:12 PM UTC
complexity
is your beauty
simplicity
your mystery
interdependence
sustains you
once upon a time
we dipped bowls
into your waters
and brought up
draughts of life
now
Skipjacks go
fathoms deep
into endless
depletion
charting
entangled
dead zones
broadening
into a sea of
inertness
your delicate
eco-essence tips
toward oblivion
effluvia farmers
layer mechanized
blankets of
nitrates on your
sunset shores
weaving
green tendrils
of algae blooms
strangling the
entanglements
of all links in
your miraculous
food chain
the EPA
proscribes
a Jenny Craig
pollution diet
to halt the
slaughter in
oxygen
challenged
dead zones
where rockfish
are garroted,
oysters get drilled
by screwworms
and azure tinted
soft shell *****
dance soft
shoe taps
lifting a tinny
chorus of sad
Piedmont Blues
the flat-lining
watersheds
voiceless
warnings
tremble
rocking the
purged nests of
screaming ospreys
in vocal protest
of a sinking
Tangier Isle
anointing it’s
tombstones
of unvisited
cemeteries with
multicolored
guano
fitting
alkaline
tributes
to the lost
inhabitants
and forgotten
languages
sinking into the
brine of gray
brackish tides
Delmarva’s fine
intra-continental
balance skewed
by the oozing
industrial swill
of Frank Perdue
chicken farms
ruling the roost of
sanctioned sustainability
tinging clear watersheds
of finger lakes
set in splints to
repair dislocations
and complex
compound fractures
that may never heal
again
Music Selection:
Taj Mahal: Fishin Blues
jbm
Oakland
6/7/12
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
People of peace walk gently
People of strength never be stilled
Abundance awaits those with courage
RW Dennen-
Stay out of Iraq the spirits
pleaded...
Eyes wide opened, boots and shoes lined up in order
in almost perfect straight lines in Philadelphia July 2005
Symbolic death shoes of civilians out of synchronization
in a war of soldiers
Under a small tree meticulously placed
we're children's shoes in a perfect solid circle
I read o months of age on tags
I read 8 years old on tags
I read 12 years old on tags
And on and on the children's lists grew,
as wisdom must have waned
and common decency
was once cherished
These shoes and boots sadly became
the dimishment of human beings,
horizontal and vertical rectangular
snapshots of once smiling faces
all in the name of war, they vanished all too soon
And I saw running tears and tears being held back
and I felt lumpy throat feelings in unison
with the rest but in cemetery silence
Touching deep feelings so overwhelming
is to touch a false bent flower and flowers
and pictures of deceased soldiers and civilians
and letters once presented at doorways
throughout America
America cried its sadness and disbelief,
the vanished breathers of life giving air,
Our sons, our daughters,
Our mothers, our fathers,
Our sisters, our brothers,
Our relatives,
Our close friends,
All perished, like a vampire that ***** away the life blood of
the once innocent
I noticed mostly tourists coming in droves from Market Street
towards us volunteers who were located adjacent to the
visitor's center side entrance as silence like before still prevailed
And like before the atmosphere prevailed even stronger
as these boots and shoes became tombstones
And tender hearts became tombstones
broken into small pieces
Passions never changed into loud speech
And the green turf
rolled down towards the sidewalk
like a green carpet holding all those boots and shoes
like a quilt interwoven with boot and civilian
shoe memories about days that should never
happen again...
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
THE GRAVE of Alexander Hamilton is in Trinity yard at the end of Wall Street.
The grave of Robert Fulton likewise is in Trinity yard where Wall Street stops.
And in this yard stenogs, bundle boys, scrubwomen, sit on the tombstones, and walk on the grass of graves, speaking of war and weather, of babies, wages and love.
An iron picket fence ... and streaming thousands along Broadway sidewalks ... straw hats, faces, legs ... a singing, talking, hustling river ... down the great street that ends with a Sea.
... easy is the sleep of Alexander Hamilton.
... easy is the sleep of Robert Fulton.
... easy are the great governments and the great steamboats.
3.2k
*footsteps like swan feathers,
flow to behind the tombstones—
where I will call the memories and lay;
to wake for the times anew.*
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
I think I'm going blind.
I'm under the impression you've disappeared.
That you're gone for good.
That you've eliminated yourself from my retinas in order to escape my mile wide stare.
That you've constructed homes under tombstones hoping I'd mistake you for
A box of under-appreciated skeletal remains
Because all you've ever wanted is to be dead to me.
Like you wanted my eyes to forget about their day job and resort to conceptualized adultery
Because God forbid I commit to an honest day's pay.
I've never intentionally visualized imaginary fabrications.
But the truth is, my eyes do everything but tell the truth.
1. My eyes write monotonous picture books with your face plastered on every single page
Just to recreate your physical beauty time and time again
So the world knows your look tops my mind's best seller list.
2. My eyes climb mountain tops and skinny dip in stormy seas
Because sometimes crazy is the only way I can get you to look at me.
3. My eyes fly hot air balloons carried by the echoes of your soft spoken sentences
As if exhaust pipes could spew such sweet nothings into the night sky.
4. My eyes invade foreign lands with every intention of burning down
Prehistoric villages and discovering your secret hideaway because I too
Want to know how it feels to savagely destroy former sacred territory.
5. My eyes struggle out of bed every morning. Not even
Three shots of espresso can perk my eyes up enough
To allow the radiation you still give off enter my pores.
I think I'm going blind.
Or maybe I just can't see straight.
Or be straight up with you and tell you how it takes every part of me
To not gauge my own eyes out for betraying the rest of my body.
It takes every part of me to admit my misjudgments spawned the downfall of it all.
Because I told you I saw the two of us trekking through unfamiliar lands
With each stride another step towards our destiny.
Because I told you I saw something in your eyes
That gave mine the ability to smile.
Because I told you I saw us redefining what infinity
Looks like to the senseless visionary.
But my eyes don't tell the truth.
I'm going blind.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
He would bring me orchids,
To the cemetery late at night
We would make love amongst the tombstones
In the pale, moonlight
Whispering sweet promises,
We both knew could never be
I prayed to the godless heavens,
That he'd be mine for eternity
Now he forever lies,
In that cemetery by the sea
Only the scent of death and orchids,
Brings his memory back to me
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 4:15 PM UTC
In the depths of the night, where shadows creep,
Lie tales of darkness, so hauntingly deep.
A moon cloaked in mist, a chilling wind's wail,
Where spirits awaken, and courage may fail.
Beneath gnarled trees, a graveyard awakes,
Where restless souls wander, their rest at stake.
With hollowed eyes and whispers of despair,
They yearn for release from their eternal snare.
Amongst the tombstones, a figure does tread,
A specter in black, with a cloak like the dead.
Her name is Lilith, the mistress of fright,
With a wicked grin, she conjures the night.
"Oh! Hear my call," she whispers in the dark,
As she weaves her spells, leaving her mark.
Bats take to the sky, their wings spread wide,
Guiding lost souls, to the other side.
In the haunted manor, spirits do dwell,
Where echoes of laughter turn into a knell.
Ghostly footsteps echo down the hall,
As the present and past collide and enthrall.
The clock strikes midnight, the hour of dread,
When the veil between worlds grows thin, it is said.
Ghosts emerge from their slumber, seeking release,
Their ethereal presence, a haunting caprice.
In the flickering candlelight, shadows dance,
As witches gather, their potions enhance.
With cauldrons bubbling and spells on their lips,
They conjure enchantments, with mystical quips.
Oh! Beware the night, when the jack-o'-lanterns glow,
And spirits arise from the depths below.
For Halloween's magic, a captivating lure,
Where darkness and mystery forever endure.
So, as the moon rises, casting an eerie glow,
Embrace the enchantment, let your fears go.
For on this haunted eve, when the spirits unite,
We celebrate Halloween, in the shadows of night.
But tread carefully, for darkness is near,
And the spirits are watching, with ghoulish cheer.
Enjoy the thrill, the ***** and the fright,
On this chilling Halloween night.
Oct 27, 2023
Oct 27, 2023 at 9:12 AM UTC
She often thought that, in a morbid way, loving someone was like death.
The parts of yourself that you reveal and give, wrapped in silver tinsel and flowered paper, can be broken, stolen, or returned worse for wear.
Sometimes love waters the beautiful parts of people, allowing them to grow and twine their way into everyone’s smile. However, the same effect can be gained by the famine that rejection brings, drying the beautiful parts until they are no more than the
husk of the darkest humanities seeping into snarls.
What makes love dangerous, is the allure of how easily you could get hurt, rejected, tossed carelessly aside, or broken, but you’re taking a chance on another human being having the compassion not to abandon you in the gutter along with every other heart they have wrung dry.
The trees we carve with hearts and initials are almost like our tombstones, waiting for the date to be scribed underneath, of when he stopped loving her eyes or she stopping drying his tears.
Our memories are deposited regretfully at the sites we have marked with our love, the diner where he first saw her drinking coffee, the library where they shared their first kiss, the grassy patch where they lounged and discussed their children and wedding. The memories and emotions we leave in these places are the fragrant lilies and roses stained with our tears that we drop at the grave site; allowing ourselves to be overcome with the sting of losing someone forever.
After you lose the emotional connection with someone that can rarely be re-forged, you go through the grieving process that’s special and selective for every individual. The length and intensity of the grieving stages varying on amount of betrayal, nostalgia, affection, broken trust, and anger that came with the initial passing. Sometimes it’s the denial stage that clings, your mind intent that they will walk back into your life next Tuesday like a maelstrom hasn’t wreaked your lives.
So, in a morbid way, she often thought that loving someone was like attending a funeral to look at a mirror box, with your heart nestled inside someone else’s hands.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
am I awake dreaming that I am asleep
or perhaps asleep dreaming that I am awake
yet I do dream. I dream of Brazil
where antique rages like great storms
announce themselves with a small breeze
that stands against rust in mighty waves
and stares at the bleak mid winter
eyes of oppression and by
crimson haste, dithers in despair
and watches the pages
that unleash such rages
become the cobalt colour of tombstones
who ***** themselves behind the eyes
in dramatic stages
yet is the announcement of all these
historic rages
that are outrageous
placed upon blank pages
that butchers compassion
which is almost infinitesimally brief
yet so poignant and dislocating
has a momentarily almost faint identity
that singles indefinable loss
that is expressed in all known language
and splinters the mind into dark deep waters
that the only thing that can be
trusted is this moment, this moment
is the realisation, so powerful
that one cannot do otherwise
but confront it and in so doing
feel the immense vibration of change
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC