All poetry will go here, unless it is a part of a WIP I’m working on, such as Women of the Eternal.
describe for me the instance in which
you knew you were human:
the day you learned what hate
does to a man, what love does
in return.
the day you learned that life
is not equal, that warriors could
turn the tides.
the day you bled, shed tears
hot and quick, the bandages that
didn’t quite work.
the day you walked out and
were lost, the stranger that pointed
you home.
describe for me the instance in which
you forget what it means to be human.
sumptuous feasts offered on tables of elm
whilst maple waves extract themselves
from window panes,
tis the season of magicks deep.
from the frosted edges hunts
the seven devils from paradise
crooning symphonies concocted
for her ears only.
inured against their trappings,
instead she plays them a song
borne upon the bloodied strings
of dawn and dusk and the last
of her resources.
she is human tonight,
the last thought before the hunted
becomes the hunter;
for the greatest demon
is not under the porchlight;
but her.
angelic faces under cuts and abrasions
dipping low to scour the seas,
naval strength that forges the waves
into anvils of cold calculations
taken away from the teat of sanity
engorged on fantasies left to fester
from whence we came
struggles the barbs of hatred
the cynosure is waiting,
man’s time spins on less than a dime
does so little matter
that our raconteurs have abandoned us?
bring forward the speech
that will wash our hearts with sense
in the wistfulness
that only history can remind us of.
greyed out opinions for greyed out facts,
a letter in the mail lost in the approaching storm;
at the edge of the globe
the end looks far too close.
shaking hands on bloody pen, mightier than thou
a halo of smoke sits around shoulders
that have carried mock saviors,
vintage lies, and modern excuses
in a grasping attempt for something mellifluous
we are not statues of marble
nor babes of an ancient,
in the recesses of our chests
is hiraeth,
waiting for its epoch to be written
nothing is out of reach,
we are at the carfax
one and all
there is no epiphany
do not let our denouement
be one of a stranger’s wanderlust.
flights and families, fear mongering and final drops;
smacks of history, but we’re making it right now
one bloody footprint at a time.
a globemaster that carries the hopes of a better tomorrow,
we watch as it reaches,
delivering the spark of life
the epitome of a silver lining
sorely needed in these black clouds.
