Hold up your hands

Hold up your hands,Stained with pale fire,Until hot dreams ofBright futures grow dim,Cooling against your sighs,Softening like your soul,Trickling through your fingers,As dried streams ofHope haunts unfettered children -These phantoms drawn inAsh falling like snow. Prompt: from the kind writers over at the pub, dVerse, “Ash” as part of their Quadrille Night.

The Cave Wall

She placed her heart in the granite wall, For it became too heavy to bear, And she walked away, light as a feather. He looked to fill the hole in his soul, With something that did not evaporate, As vapors clinging on summer dew. So the two passed themselves, Unburdened, untethered, Strange shadows cast on …

It was a most troubling delivery

It was a most troubling delivery for Godot's Bistro. Clearly, the newest methamphetamines prescribed to his now second-favorite sous-chef did precisely their job in handling their worsening ADHD symptoms by obliterating a sense of general rationality altogether. "I must have... missed a decimal or two on the distributor's tags," the distressed sous-chef exclaimed, breaking out …

The Feckless Lie

I continue to live this feckless lie, That time is the healer of all things, That "moving forward" is to mean, "You can leave the past behind," When truth says otherwise: After this journey, I'm back again, To the start, The end, Still.

Green Seas, Blue Skies

I am floating on my back,Upon this sea of green envy,Staring at a broken blue sky,Only occasionally struggling,When it serves my own interests,Or when the waves come crashing,Without even asking,Drowning me casually, like a friend,And I can then say unsarcastically,That the sky is a beautiful because it is blue,Even though it isn't really really blue,More …

Of Artists and Passion

She paints in blood and memories,Demanding of herself everything,As her soul is poured over the canvas. He sings his shattered arias,Music crafted in disharmony,His voice cracks to utter such perfection. She writes her poetry while dreaming,The words gifted from forgotten friends,Like a muted plea to be remembered.

Game Logic

It is our curse to rise again after we have fallen,To commit to the agony of reliving day after day,How many times have I died, only to wake once more?But giving up is an anathema -Aren't we trained to move forward,And grasp for the next reward? Endure. Struggle. Live.

My Muse Chuckles Darkly

Roused I from a dreamless sleepless chill, Summoned to the study, cool and still, to find my patron sleeping deeply, poured over cantos stolen cheaply, Cobbled by whispers of ancient lore, Having discarded me, long before. So, having loved him, rob I his sight, Allow him to dream of endless night, Perhaps the Dark Stars …

A Prison of my Own Making

I stopped this morning, All the thinking.Gulping air with sightless eyes,The constant bell-ring in my ear,The stabbing knives in my mind,Slowly faded.In my thoughtless breath,I rode free from the flesh,Beyond the blood running hot,And the thousand-thousand thoughts,Coalescing into the mortar-mess,Mortarium,That cages my feverish consciousness.

Staring at the Cut

I stared at the bloody cut between my body and soul -It is not a physical sort of pain,This doomed wound,It is the absence of being, the gap between, a hole,Wound soundly around,The very concept of what makes you whole. Prompt: from the kind writers over at the pub, dVerse, “Wound” as part of their Quadrille …