tipped with fire
in the beginning,
wisdom left us for sunlight.
young lungs breathe, and scream.
as leaves eclipse red,
the body stretches in defense.
it grows under threat.
will the wind carry
every hope away from us?
we all feel our age.
seasons always change.
from child to maverick -
from summer to fall.
trees are tipped with fire.
an Ouroboros pyre.
wisdom found anew.
when the dark crawls into view
is it the end, or the womb?
where have you been
lately, i've been hiding.
the world has been loud
and much like a child
i've hidden myself under a table
waiting for the shouting to die down.
though it hasn't quieted for months, now.
voices ricocheting like bullets —
they crack into the walls,
they rip apart the family dog.
they breach every surface until i know
nothing is safe, anymore.
not the table where i eat.
not the history in my walls.
not even the family dog is spared this fate;
and you know that's where a family
keeps its love safe.
so yes, i'm hiding today.
cowering beneath my home, my grave.
while the world crumbles around me and
the table becomes my tomb;
i wonder, again, if it will end soon.
i don't know what else to do.
in patterns they cling -
comfort to the leaves fore' they
part; kissing the soil.
if the footsteps behind me are mine
echoing off the marble floors in clips
and clops, heel-toe tempo in an envelope
do you think sound travels through time?
do you think the scream i release is
captured by the stained glass windows,
the same way harmonies and hymns once sunk
holy knives into ancient gilded glass for worship?
oh the song of God is a mourning call, as most
people will call out for their Father in times
distressful and hard. could i mail my death-throes
in the same audible envelope i arrived in?
wordless noise folded over and over again
pressed together and sharpened to a blade.
cacophony shoved into every corner and corridor
until the word of God is spoken under the echo.
so would you believe anyone can become a ghost?
since time is an echo and my last memories
tied to this place are a song i never wish to sing again.
since i remember a song i shouldn’t know.
since these halls are empty of sound,
and here, death is the only thing hallowed.
i’d wish my voice to travel far back in time.
if only to guide the people God left behind.
a love affair with death
the beetles digging deep in my skin,
they're dyed in crusted, rusted alizarin.
blood or pigment there is no difference.
by the soil that which accepts me
i am become deliverence.
the way my skin melts into the glade
of which, the touch of decay,
sped along by April showers,
pummel the ground to a verdant grave
of which, my body lays down.
though perhaps a windy crescendo shall
herald the end.
after all, what other embargo walls
could the beetles erect in my lost flesh?
they eat to stall a love affair with death.
now, words like blaspheme make me ache.
for this rotting body is in a place
of consecrated ground,
and time will leave no lasting trace
of what these bones used to sing about.
oh, i’m afraid my patience is spent
for the world has too heavy a hand,
and it is the past i’ve come to lament.
old days of sunlit skies and hours content
i am a hungry body aching for love without remand,
but I’m afraid that patience is already spent.
if your patience were a thing of torment
i would recognise it, as the cheek knows the hand
love’s absence echoes, wailing in red lament.
recall the days i’ve darkened your door, bent
half over, swimming in brine and unable to stand.
you said quick - “i’m afraid my patience is spent”
didn’t you? quick to flee, these fickle creatures we pretend
to be; in love and unconditional on demand.
we must become figments to love, i lament. i lament.
sweet, i remember the touch of love once meant
for me, and me alone - though memory is cruel and
i’m afraid my patience is long spent.
such is the past i’ve come to lament.
Hey guys, I know I've become less and less active on this platform over the years, and it's not for lack of writing poetry. I've actually decided to open up a patreon in an attempt to save up and start self publishing poetry and other projects!
There are only three tiers so far, ranging from 3$ usd to 8$ usd, and I'll be posting a brand new poem every Wednesday. I'll also be posting some practice stories I've been working on, along with a wip of a fantasy novel I've been tinkering away at xD There's Q+A, there's possibly a community playlist, and in the future possibly a community discord!
If you're interested, I'd dearly appreciate it if you could check it out!
a corpse lies in my bed.
bathed in blue light, foggy eyes
stamped on an unmoving head.
it's growing fungus along the spine,
colored in reds, purples - fire and wine.
mushrooms lift from the sheets,
painting a skyline of decay, haunted
by that unearthly blue horizon.
light coming off that small device
embossed in still palms.
a simple, rectangular box, metal and silver
a coffin of it's own kind -
but somehow the picture i paint
is still beautiful, in a way.
we all die a little at night,
it's just the way the world turns.
so why not make death just
a bit more sublime?
we'll be dead a lot longer
than we'll be alive.
so this is where you've been.
so this is where midnight delivered you
after you broke that stupid clock, again.
should i be surprised to find you
lying on the floor, toasting the dog bowl
with your bubbling cider slucing
across the floor like someone painted
a path of disappointment for it to follow.
so this is cold indifference.
so this is why your father made that
ball and chain joke after our wedding vows.
after you laughed and decided our love
was akin to inprisonment, somehow.
at what point am i allowed to be angry,
at what point is my kiss not enough
to keep you where i can see you.
to keep those horns off your head when you
take too deep of a swallow.
the devil's drink burns your tongue and i
actually can't do this anymore.
i guess i'll just turn around
and leave you lying on the floor.
i guess that's all there is of us, now.
the wind is alive, today.
it moans and batters the walls of my house
like it means to find a way in.
like it wants to peel the roof off
and let the rain sink into the carpets
to let it become rotted
like the graveyard of leaves i find
every time i step outside.
did you know leaves can die?
did you know they leave a body behind?
a shadow of itself - a carved out impression
outlined in black rot and winter depression.
the wind wants my bones, i fear.
the way it howls for blood, frantic mess
of voices scraping at my house in
desperation and despair.
i'm afraid it wants me to rot with the leaves.
i'm afraid it's carnivorous
and it won't rest until my body is
a carcass in the stone -
hunted out of house and home.
it makes me wonder aloud
could i die
if the wind finds me alone?