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It’s been a couple of years,
and here I return.
Heart still longing to write the words afraid to show up.
Mostly I sneak about under cover of night,
Fulfilling my awful aims away from broader sight,
For no one must suspect
The beast that dwells within their midst.

I am a master of concealment.
Smart and somber fabrics shield my skin
From the painful sear of daylight,
And my complexion, I keep like porcelain—
For no clean and delicate doll
Was ever suspected of reveling
In baths of hellfire.
This façade I employ lest the people discover,
And ****** before me their holy images,
Burning me as if with a branding iron,
And driving me far from their dwelling
Into solitary desolation.

For in truth, I am an agent
Of offense and pollution
To all that is wholesome and good.
I entice man to share my fate.
He invites me in and I infect him –
The Imago Dei – with Death.
Driven by this curse, this unholy hunger,
I live only to eat –
That is, if one could even say I live.
There is no glory, no beauty in this state.
My eyes are as gleaming stars
And my skin is as a moonbeam,
But the flesh beneath is always freezing,
Always cold and always screaming
In agonized starvation
For more of what makes it sick,
The only warmth it knows being gleaned
From the bodies of its meals.
A quietly blaring reminder to me
That I am the Dead walking.

This night begins as many before it.
My clothes blotted crimson with fresh sin:
The stain of another’s flesh.
The latest meal to leave me ill,
And yet more hungry still.
I tread the gray and lifeless streets,
My dead frame mustering no defense
Against the chill of night.
All is dark and still, as no sound, no soul,
And scarce a light the night gives
To interrupt the feast within –
The Hunger consuming all thought,
And the Cold consuming all feeling.
My spirit sends out a silent plea
For, if not some kinder release,
A second death.

My wandering stops before the chapel,
The only structure affording light or color
To Nyx’s bleak realm.
The candles and lamps still all alight
Send cascades of rainbows
Surfing down upon beams of gold
Through the glass mosaics
To the ground outside.
Something in this ethereal beauty
Grasped something in my soul.
I wished to crumble, to sob,
As I felt so alien from whatever it was
That infused this light to make it good.
Yet I wished to float, to hope,
As here it was, pouring down before me—
Onto me.

Looking in then from afar
Through the colored glass,
I saw behind the altar raised high
On his execution tree,
The image of the Lamb
With sorrow carved into His face
And wounds painted onto His side.
My eyes stayed fixed to that solemn sight
Till they ran with salt.
“They say You came
To make clean the Unclean,
To wash away every vile stain
That corrupts Your Image,”
Said I.
“They say You were sent
To ransom the Dead;
To free the captives
Of Hades’ rotten grip.
To bring bread and water
That ceases all thirst and hunger,
And gives Man second life.
Were You not?”

As the question left my lips,
I heard from around the corner
A creaking in reply.
Curiosity spurred,
I crept around to find
The doors an inch ajar,
With a widening sliver of golden light
Pouring forth from within.
Such a peculiar glow it was,
So pleasant yet so frightfully strange.
It did not burn,
But was rather as a balm,
Or a mild, warm rain.
There I stood for many moments,
Rendered motionless by a blend
Of paralytic fear and sedative calm
Until, carried on the streams of light
Came a gentle whisper to my ear
That spoke the sweetest, simple words:
“Dear wayward child, enter in.”
Apr '25
Malia 3d
black spores on the mildewed walls
peeling over the wood
rot that even the vultures shun
it grows in cracks and in dark places.

the disease sticks its spiny fingers
down your throat, so you can’t
scream…
silence, silence, it wants
silence.
it wants
absence,
no self left to 𝘣𝘦.

outside, it has been night for years
babes born bawling, not knowing
what stars, moon, sky, sun used to
look like, nothing but the concrete
sea.

and yet, though Purity
has her headstone with the
rest, though there are no longer
prayers
to be blessed
there is good,
there is GOD in this
God-forsaken world,
there is GOOD
there is GOD—
you.
hey! it’s been a while lol
The dark has come
Take heed this charge
As we stand our ground
The sun shall come

The dark has come
Look to your brothers
Sisters and daughters
The night is young

The dark has come
Tis not the end
We shall not break
Naught but might

Look to the horizon
This is not the end
Lift up your swords
With shield and strength

This path we're on
Twill not be out end
Let our tale be sung
Echo across the hills

Naught but might
We fight tonight
As shadow comes
For all of us

The dark has come
Let not this be
A fading memory
Standing our ground

Our journey made
Paved in blood
Tears of many
This is our history

The curse of mankind
Twill never be so kind
Still, we look to the sun
For the dark has come

Look for the dawn
For the night is long
And we shall see the sun
The battle has only begun
The artist that goes against the artist –
how could it not end off in a draw
Two rocks that smoke **** together –
are the terms of been too ******
That blind eye that sees a blind eye –
watching those ideals of love being blind

To truly love someone as the exquisite masterpiece
they are, is truly an art – and brave to say,
“I could rock your world,”
yet my own life often feels a bit too rocky.
Telling tall tales of what our love could become;
my dear, do not turn a blind eye to the potentials
of this love becoming too short.

Place your trust less in humanity,
to fully trust fund your worth.
You are not owned by any man at all;
even as they see you as assets in this world;
it is essential to assess how you choose to live, by the
Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth—
the BIBLE,

Which embodies the true essence of His word.
AWURAA Apr 10
So I'll draw closer to you.

Understanding that I shouldn't put my trust in myself;
I should put my trust in you.

So I'll tell you my heart.
Let you know it's growing weeds that seek to **** my love for you.
AWURAA Apr 10
"I don't think he was on his lunch break, he was still on the job as he couldn't get time off for Ramadan."

"Yes, he was fasting, still on route and could not get of, so with the need to pray, he chose to do so within his short break before he changed routes."

" Wisdom to him was knowing that he must pray."

"The room was dark and his skin was a shadow that could be seen by those who noticed and looked closely."

" I noticed, so I looked closely.
He placed the newspaper down on the ground."

"?"

"At first I thought it was the wipe up the ***** that could have found but then he knelt down."

" I was puzzled and I knew my face showed it ... so I watched him, my head cocked to the side, eyes fixed, I chose to reside, I was conscious of those around me, buses that passed slowly, but, he had me fixed, awestruck, so I chose to reside."

"He bent over, head down, mumuring words; I could not make out the sounds."

"And then he stood up, head down, head up, I could not make out a sounds."

" I knew I should have looked away, that it was a private moment and I was disturbing it, but I was not the middle man for his prayers."

" I was the onlooker, curious of  the man who made a newspaper his prayer-mat and the bus, his prayer-room."

" So I watched, three minutes go by, eyes fixed, this one kid sees me staring and follows my gaze, tracing it back to the earnest praying man."

" Then he looks with me, then it's us, it's us watching him; the man on the bus with his paper-mat."
lifelover Nov 2016
when i was ten my sister tried to drown me because
she wanted to cleanse me of my sins. they said she was
schizophrenic but
i think she was right
i should have listened
White Owl Apr 16
Father, listen, do you hear
The wailing spirit's desperate sound?
See you the black despair
That like a python 'round his neck is wound?
His light, it flickers, dimmer seeming,
As he off his hope is weaning,
As the stars all fall careening
From his eyes down to the ground.
He wonders if You've vanished,
Or if 𝒽ℯ is lost to ne'er be found.

Father, I know that You
And your compassion for us Men are real.
Your hands can still do miracles,
My eyes have 𝓈ℯℯ𝓃 them work and heal.
So hear my prayer as I plead
For this dear soul in dire need --
Set him from this bleak shadow freed,
Wrap him in love that he can feel!
And if he must these fires endure,
Then forge him into stronger steel.
Apr '25

This poem is based on prayers I've said several dozen times for two people in my life. As I was writing this, I also had a third in mind whom I've never met. If it happens to apply to you, it was written for you as well.
Maria Apr 13
My heartlet is crying, crying.
It means it’s hurt of lying.
It means it’s been stepped on again.
Its faith has been killed disdain.

And again it’s like an abandoned whelp
In a field of unmown grass with no help,
Is looking for path and crying, crying.
It means it’s in lots of pain. It’s dying.
Thank you for reading my poem!💖
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