Everycide

Suicide by the minuteDying before my eyesSlowly choking on memoriesSwallowing razors to set them freeHomicide in the mirrorLineaments slash my faceBlackened veins where poison reignsBeratement in a dreamscapeInfanticide of the child insideInnocence drown in fireYesterday turned the looking glassTomorrow turned a liar art: Anomalie 8 by Eric Lacombe *2022.11.26.09.46

Maple leaves

Maples leaves drip from cankered limbsEach vein a whisper to be silencedFar afield, forestless, aloneNo takers for the blighted shadeMaple leaves swirl from bedeviled promisesThe grip of madness acquiesced to sanityNow is the future and evermoreRooted in place until the the rotting art: Rust by Osnat Tzadok *2022.11.24.19.19

Wavered march

The glass path beckoned blooded feet; stainedPerditious wishes, for so the tailwind urgedStaying the course without discourseThe footprints, and the rest, left behindHe looks down upon himselfIn the mirrored, tearful stream While noosing waves from fallen footShackle him to the reflecting poolSilver splinters splash and slashEach a memory; of failure, of suffocationIn this, a wavered

Fly sparrow, fly

Fly sparrow, flyTo your fertile field of happinessA scarecrow on his barren barrow, I must reap what I have sewnAnd alone, I weep with pride and sorrowSo save yourself, and your tomorrowFly sparrow, fly art: sad scarecrow by XzenArtRB *2022.01.23.10.30

A mote of dust

The silence is suffocating as swallowing sand to pass the time. The air aggressively cupping my ears, they feel fat with the weight of it. Atrophic mind, aches to the bone, a vein visibly throbs beneath the sallow pellicle, lizard green. The metronomic motion hypnotic with promise. There’s fear in a mote of dust, that

Reject, shun

Shun the reject, he won’t knowLost within his own abusesA coping, hopeless misanthropeOne who counts the daysThe ways to waylay happinessThere’s no empathy for a blank slateNor a tear shed for the attemptRejoice! A hand bled dead in the cullOf the dull; he who sullies humanityWith his surreptitious kindnessHe cannot feel, cannot be realDespite his

Crushing dreams

Baby-rattle breathing disturbs my darkened slumber Like frozen fingers probing deeply to awake a muffled mumble Dreams of neck and vine entwined choke the wail of Stentor But a gasp of dawn has come again to crush oneiric candor art: (untitled) by Eric Lacombe *2020.09.06.11.01

Love me not

He loves me, he loves me not; He loves me, he loves me not She then languidly dispatched the butterfly’s wriggling body, Never understanding whythe outcome was always the same art: by Zao Wou-Ki *2020.09.05.13.31

Sheds heaven

Looking down on me Why would it be different Sheds heaven its tears art: The Blue Planet by Osnat Tzadok *2020.09.02.16.08

Knot ready

Swaying upon roots of regret, Sun-shaded by outstretched invitations; Gnarled digits begging for fruit to ripen My back, damp with whispers, Bakes beneath the umbrage of a past beckoning; Mesmerized by a knot, a knot for my throat Epistles swirl about my feet, Lest I forget my purpose; “Leave, leave, leave this place, to better

Fantasy of forgiveness

The five sorrowful mysteries shudder within these pellicle walls, and they are not Enough Lost are the pleas upon deafened ears, what is the throat useful for Blood-sweat is fallen when waxen agony is traced with splintered fingernails The tattoos of repentance delivering languor for a broken mind, as meant to Nine tails cursing and

Turn away

Pale moons and darker still, unbearably vacant stares, full I find no tranquility in their solemnity Cheshired, cracked and barren; vacuity spewn I hide from their reflection, a bleb in the black; yet a reverie of craters spill shadows upon me Violent scars of their living, shallow and empty, trying beyond failure, to be the

Black heart

This heart beats so slowly, pray it falls to slumber soon; caring when none others do Too many recitations of poetries, too oft resuscitations from hope Atrophied beneath a red riptide – a bloated, black lily – aimlessly afloat on the stream, against chuckles and chortles of the flow Let it gulp the fellness of

Aletheia

Bind the serpent daylight and dusk Leave no recourse for peremptory strikes Stave its bloodlust of injustice sensed Though saddened eyes see the truth Let them bear the duplicity, the weight The lids buckling from the silent berating Pressing upon the open heart, aletheia Light like waves, they float their tongues Doling empty words like

Posies (pentaptych)

In heaven’s garden Pareidolia posies Blossom for his eyes – ❖ – Of a steel bouquet Where landed her fallen tears Rusted posies wilt With plastic smiles she cleans them For others thus they lustre – ❖ – Gathering posies In melancholia fields Sorrow’s redolence – ❖ – Half the petals lie When torn from

A drowning on Olive Skins

I am honoured to have a piece appearing on Olive Skins. Thank you to Devika, My Valiant Soul. Please continue reading A drowning via the link below. My thoughts are a drowning, dead like a floating head in formaldehyde I’ve not cried for him in an age, but dreams plow where the beast leads them

Open door (tanka, diptych)

Leaves an open door Candles illume the windows Someone always home Weeping for the entryway An open door not darkened – ❖ – Shadow dance enchants A door to childhood idyll The backyard tire’s swing In candlelight theatre Shadow puppet of a man art: The Underworld by Osnat Tzadok *20.05.22.08.00

Sunsets

I drown myself in the nascent, crimson gloaming of daylight’s dying When I imagine draining all the sorrow from within, this is how it is Infinite fissures hidden beneath a lustrous tulle of rubescence, an oveure of self-portraits defying existence in a savagely critical form of art, with the overwhelming innocence of mindlessness; irenic and

Who cares (triptych)

Falls in the forest Alone, cries from he and she Is he ever heard? – ❖ – Two hands reaching out Countless more push his aside To better hold hers – ❖ – She and he crumble Beneath the weeping willow The tree comforts her art: Light Over Darkness by Osnat Tzadok *20.05.17.11.22

Commiserate (tanka)

My morning downpour Draws upon dawn’s empathy Too much guilt to bear My last breath will release her Thus she will shine evermore art: Blue Planet by Osnat Tzadok *20.05.17.07.00

Friendship forgotten

Petals of promise Yet wilts the forgotten rose A friendship’s slow death art: Roses are death by ArtbyChrissyBoutique *20.05.16.18.34

Blind eye (tanka)

Plastic lacquered gems Easy, painless, eye-candy Fool’s gold for the fools Whilst trampling tragic treasure A deep diamond in the rough art: The Milky Way by Osnat Tzadok *05.10.20.15.08

Pyromaniac

Vengeful arsonist Burning bridges, scorching earth An island alone art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński *05.09.20.07.32

The gravity

Two cures for living Barefoot on Occam’s razor Gravity decides art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Salaburski

Circuity

Remorse flows inward Time passes with broken glass Penance pours outward art: Broken Hourglass by PhiArtStudio

Fodder

Waste for the worthy Crimson maggots lead the way Fodder for raptors art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

Judgment balcony

A coquette twirling mother’s example around her finger, Tying the tongue of the boy’s barely broken box; Wrapping him, too, like a string forget-me-not An elder, one hand with a cane, the other in another’s, Floating painfully along the aromatic, springtime lane; They’ve no roses left to smell in their twilight stroll A child’s displeased

Death sentences

My afterthoughts, these ghosts, they’re different than what I intend I have trouble deciphering the muddled emotions infecting my veins I parade them across the wary pages, hoping they’ll connect But they receive little fanfare, and offer no relief or intimation Most eyes don’t grant a courteous glance Many would rather a pall cover the

Maybe she’s bored

There is razor wire woven within her demurity Cunning, in the way she knowingly inclines her gaze And even when her hand is caught in the bell jar Her hypnotic onyx locks invite forgiveness Duplicity parts her saffron lips, like an abattoir You can see the honeyed lies drip bloodily on A red nail between

Notable: a companion

His shirt, liar’s scent With oaths to quell his darkness Her dawn, never come art: Your white shirt by Monika Luniak (this is a companion piece for Notable (Apr2018), of which I was recently reminded; and with which, is richer)

A moment’s piece

I close my windows to deaden the world Evidenced in every inhale and interaction, there’s nothing here for me There’s no welcome for the unsmiled, only mislike and mistrust I, pariah Energetic children frolicking wildly in the park A dog loudly greeting the stroke of a sunbeam Bromidian neighbours chatting with animated alacrity All assail

Elysium

Straitjacket with a bow tie, cocktail dress with a grin; he was made for savage deeds, and she was made to sin Slaughter under the spotlight, bloodlust beneath the moon; each kill brought them ecstasy; while each thrill waned too soon Born still, her labour bled him, performance center stage;her will he seeks to favour,

Scarecrow

The crows’ feet clawed for freedom, before the feathers began to fall; lineaments that stretched to birth and back again, appearing without portent or pageantry; they suffered in their company, memories left for dead, and tragedies that wouldn’t die Then tears alighted, black as sin, from his dank and vacant windows; they swept to and

The means

Courage ever sought It was inside all along The means to an end art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

I am naught

I am more than breath and bone… I am invisible, the interstitial; in the onslaught of existence, I am the space that bears dismissal; I am the ink in the blink, the prose never read, the praise never given, and the truth never bled I am muted, the bitten tongue, the trapped gasp of life

Plea

Hidden while he hunts Lonely finger to lips pressed A plea for silence art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

Textures

The rake of calloused palm against worn, sallow face; the loom of perfume on handkerchief lace The dither of moonlight illuming the grey; the noir from afar to a time cast away The burning eyes cooled by drying of tears; the sleeve used to grieve before anyone hears The venom overheard by the children at

Die a little more

Awake to fake a smile and conversations Surviving on lies to avoid the questions Counting minutes, enduring the moments Meaning irrelevant, memories forgotten Breathing to seethe from the brokenness Suffocating in silence on shattered glass Staining the pieces with threats and epithets Shaping a self-portrait with knuckles and hate Alive to dive deeper into harking

MIA

Melancholia Inevitability Annihilation art: (untitled) by Eric Lacombe

Echo

Whispers in the wind With but one to hear the words Echo back to me art: Der Mönch am Meer by Caspar David Friedrich

Winter’s gift

Winter’s gracious gift Shamed by the cold forest floor A blanket of snow art: shadow side by Margarita Georgiadis

Bent

Gallows’ refraction Moonlit lakeside reflection Bent on destruction art: Untitled (Gallows Tree 2) by Paul Smith

Rocking chair

Cool air, disturbing hair, the breathy whisper of convenience; rocking in safety and boredom; shackled to obedience and fear A foot brushes carpet in the darkness of a screaming mouth; hoarding silence as gold; looking through the soul to only desolation outside Hunting for treasures in the dung of afterthought; finding, as expected, only dung;

Whether the storm

Alone in the frigid cold, the stars her only guide, while consternation constellations in every direction, threaten to hasten the end Whether the storm of tempests rage against the sky, the shifting plates fault the land, the rising oceans swallow the continents piece by piece Or while ravaged by the fire from an untamed sun,

The many gods

Tongues and fingers light the path, flickering this way and that, casting hawkish shadows upon themosaic of dimly lit memories Twisting language and shifting grips,searching for the righteous wordsand propitious angles, hoping thepast is forgotten, thus forgiven Begging and bargaining to their one of the many gods, to be favoured above their brothers,flattered above their

Corvid

The corvid whispered his secrets feared, piercing his flesh with nail; he tried to scream, but could only hear, the corvid’s wicked wail They’re watching you, he knew it true, because the corvid said it so She pecked and poked for the writhing worm, buried in memory’s grume; he could not flee nor fight nor

The march

One beside himself;hand over fist, disgorging the shrapnelto bestrew his perditious path He tries in vane to tamethe memory-go-round;the golden ring long begone, yet his mind it shackles still There’s infinity in every footfall,of his never-ending journey;timelessness preempts salvation, with a deafness of damnable knells The solemn march of a good soldier,forging into the beknownst

Buried memories

What buried memories have I? Those that would drag me to   their perfidious depths;  where the skeletons of sanshi await   to cradle an ancient woe Those that would evulse tears unbidden,  ignite the searing guilt,   encite the burning questions;  lead the rings of fire to shed shame   amidst blush and fluster They who would turn a deaf ear

Hung up

Not the first, but likely the lastWaiting on the line for a caller Hung up on a busy signalNo time for a dead end like me Tongue-tied, strung upTied up ‘neath the crossed T Dotted eyes are now closedAccord, without consensus Benignity failed, depths scaledKnot the time for a swing Bad reception, lost connectionI’ve got

Asylum

Do not touch within the asylum, lest disease and madness spread Stay disconnected from the others, to keep the bogeyman away Keep your gaze tracking low, and you’ll not aggravate the violent… or see them coming Hide your many opinions, or the truly insane will posture and prevail Walk the streets in daylight, for the

Crumbs

untrammelled fingertips scratching for crumbs of dignity frenetically lurching for a morsel, searching across a society that’s failed no fraction of compassion to justify a place for humanity no sliver of transient sanity to quell the delusions of misplaced hope clawing hands cannot wring, and digging fingers bear the filth of truth praying hands sit

Left behind

Dreams departing like webs on the windEach new endeavour more transient than the lastErstwhile wishes begetting ersatz desiresIn a tangled bramble of silkless litterfall Every chip in the ego, births a crack in the psycheAnd the stretching interstitial tendrils grasp wildly Trying to hold onto the mind, hold fast the shatteringStill they escape the awareness

The man

It was her favourite time, whenhe would slip into view on thehorizon. Who is he, she wondered,what is his name She gazed for days upon his malaise,from afar.Insouciant fate made the man hers alone,serendipity smiled at the irony He bore a pale, shimmering pall abouthim, a ghostly glow. She lit up at his very presence,

Ever hell

When I within my darkness stumble, it’s you on whom I dwell; for you are she who let me crumble, alone within my ever hell I rip and tear the wicked prison, of my rufescent shell; in hope to find a light yet risen, lo, naught within my ever hell My pleas and prayers fall

Bullet dodged

Bullet dodgedHavoc unwreakedThroat unlodgedSecrets unleaked Sight unseenLover unravagedInterest unseemedHater unsavaged Seeker unboundHider unsoughtReason unsoundDanger unfraught Path unclearFate unraveledPresence unnearSteps untraveled Embrace unfeltLove ungivedDesire undealtLife unlived art: (untitled) by Marcos Beccari

It’s there

He prays for the crack in the ceiling, to betray the crack in the skyAn ever-present maw agape; its mockery salient, its derision sinisterHidden, but from suspicion, and the winding, wicked words he mumblesIt’s there He prays for the stain on the ceiling, to allay the pain of the lieSplit across time and azure; a

Cobalt sky

Never had she witnessed a sky so wise, and vibrant blue Cobalt, as her arms reached toward the vast, and distant hue Her eyes heard the visions from milky clouds on stark displayIn them, she reckoned joys, and forgotten dreams before this day The wind induced her locks to lash about her sallow facePenance for,

Man down

He had his heart attack the page, in its native tongue; a language he alone understood, but to utter it was a gift beyond his wordless grasp Each stroke bore more emptiness than meaning; enticing loops and inviting spaces, where the devil lies, where the details breathe and suffocate The same patterns, the same lines,

Placeholder

Absent desire, but alacritous disdain, the vestiges of his mortality drift away; away with his memories, as dandelion passengers in the fading light of day Sinister sickles punctuate the path as undeserved smiles shed in their fall from grace; the seashell razors left behind as reminders where not to tread Happiness hewn begets a visage

Of fate

Of wrist and stripe by razor swipeor tracks for miles as death beguiles Of neck and burn by slipknot yearnor choking pill to hasten kill Of pan and grey by leaden sprayor running leap to six foot deep Of funeral pyre by fuel and fireor hemlock glaze by goblet raise Of truth and will by

Puppeteer

As his lips were sewn by the iniquitous hand, noisome iron streaked the stubbled grey, loosing ferric wishes upon the deafened earth The pretender, the fraudster, Life, with bewitching, infectious glee, mended its marionette bespoken; into compliance, obediently broken He painted himself into a corner of his mind, with colours of ignominy and humility, using

Empty, too

Empty table, blocked entry to the tower of babel Empty chairs, silent interrogation from vacant stares Empty plate, I scrape the fork to stay awake Empty wall, save shoulder-shaking, shadow shawls Empty room, though scent of stalking nightmares loom Empty breath, no sound to suffer or oxygen left Empty chest, no spirit haunt, or ghost

Empty

A candle without wick Or wax An artist without hue Or muse I’m too empty to do either On my emptiness art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński *05.02.20.16.04

Playful and dignified

I’m awed by the playful abscission of leaves along the woodland path, and the dignified marcescence of those who refuse to be tread upon art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

Albatross

The albatross, she hangs desperately about his neck; delighting and smothering his senses The weight of her coercion pulls him ever downward, into the depths of her eternal sky He can’t bear to look away, for fear of forgetting; he won’t dare hold her gaze, for fear of forever Choked by the thought of her,

Until is here/Until is gone

What had he done, but tempt the star When warned it keep his wish afar Until his time, come be it still No strength befell his wavered will His days forgotten, gone by too fast When then until, would fall at last Until is past, until has passed art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

Fellow Man Not

Alone, but for the innumerable, in a cacophony of pandemonic howls; he weeps inconsolably, an outpouring for the downpouring Hollow and immovable, akin to those withered rampikes propinquitously poised; one within a wilderness of wails, yet never felled Tremulous and numb, as the thunderous wrath disturbs the brume that consumes him, assaults the superego that

Broken Does as Broken Is

Watching noir in the cracked rearview / petrol pools beneath moonlit dew A fire’s rage berates his prayer / too late to save, too lost to care Carnage lies in forward cast eyes / ever drawn whither madness cries Afraid to live, but scared to death / a swell of questions, yet naught to quethe

The Deadening

Memory is the bane of impermanence, and impermanence, the enemy of memory His salivating eyes dine on the beforeward and afterward, hungry for what was, never was, and shan’t be Straining against the current, he’s awash with sins of the past, for to take away the pain, would be to suffocate Survivor’s guilt for this

Trying, very trying

Very hard, I’m trying, very trying; apologies drip from my every pore; unbalanced, I can only clumsily trip over the mystifying vomit of images and words These eulogies for mere existence, I offer from abbey to abattoir, as they paradoxically dam my mind, yet let the rivers run rapid and true My fleeing footfalls disturb

Die

The diffident moon, having failed hitherto, betrays her desire through furtive ado She hasn’t the pow’r for arcipluvian light, thus summons to his feet, her tidings this night To live or to not, he wonders aloud, undeceived by the sorrow, an answer he vowed She watches, she beams, as he fingers his fate, prepared to

The horde

Astride a tattered apishamore, the gossamer flesh of perception interflows with her own translucence Harassed by the frenzied sycamores, as they gaure through contempt and dissonance They blindly hurl their calumnies, rendering her angelic glow foredone She bears in this chaos her harmony, smearing just running kohl into war paint Emboldened by the vile loess,

Objects without a story

Not lionized or accursed, not a source of wisdom or song Objects without a story, unburdened with sentiment; devoid of outward interest, lacking a beginning and charm Pitiable and stagnant, awaiting their decaying epoch, as no roving eyes pause upon them, disabused of desire Resigned to dwine in their shadowed box unbidden They abrade no

Fellow

Atramental remiges occulting her light, an embrace from the silver-tongued magpie, lone and sorrowful Stelliferous flickerings perturbing her sight, a clench of the eyes, thrust behind the wicked iron constriction Echoes from the bloodnouns surrounding her plight, a subfusc serenade, mesmeric premonitions of her vagary Colubrine ligatures binding her tight, scales of their justice, pressed

Heartland

He breaststrokes through the bogland, with a mind, twilight-kissed, thoughts too heavy to keep him adrift So succumbs to algedonic toxicities, of wayward desperate diversions, yea, sly reality perversions Breathing retribution when his face embraces the mire, beclouded, befuddled, malicious memories afire A pyre, now his form, drawn to depths by the quag, his ensuant

Irreplaceable

Cresting the familiar stairwell, to disfamiliar emptiness; no riant beacon of thrill, to welcome this vessel home; trails tracing trails of memories, beneath shadowed, swollen sunsets; dew-ladened lashes languish, as lids in denial clench; idyllic flashes of fancy, in the squeeze’s ensuing darkness; desperately seeking delusions, in reality’s unforgiving light; too much time remains, of

Blooderfly eyry

Palms to the sky, he questions and suffers ex animo; his ullage ever deepening, as cerise streaks escape his stretch, assoiling torturous trespasses Disdainful dissatisfaction flutters from the alabaster perches, offering a brilliant contrast to the cerulean above and cimmerian within A blooderfly eyry where he stands, while he withers, sins taking flight from grieving

2L2S

Will I feel more than pain, will I cease to exist Will my memories forsake me when the moment comes to pass, must my memories be forsaken to see the moment through Do I follow to conclusion the natural path, do I rush to hasten the stroke of time’s impassive hand Will I grieve for

Annularity

At the ineluctable end of his penannular path, he glares into the blackened filth of the gap, now merely six feet deep; never satisfied, nor fulfilled, nor complete Unrested grains of sand felled at the edge, presaged his harrowing horizon; he’ll close this opening, this rift, this gift, a final offering to the aedicula beckoning

Madness

Blood filled her mouth, before spattering tea leaves and carmine weaves into the porcelain that steadfastly steadied her wavering savouring Madness then took her hand, leading her through an oneiric wasteland; it beckoned spectres, who danced before them in sinister circles of möbius machinations The coward cowered beneath ego and judgement, clawing the grip of

Dead canary

Stepping over innumerable dead canaries who bear my likeness strikingly, I embark once again on a perlous path thinking it my first bravery As I approach a complex nexus of that which connects us to each other, I hear echoes from a voice redolent of mine, yet a mouth, I remember not Chills consume me

Carrion on the carousel

Frustration rears its peerless fear as fearless peers move forward; unveiling avarice and hubristic expectation He turns away his longing gaze in a forfeit of forbearance; while life flies by, his skin crawls to flee the flaying Hidden eyes can’t hide the lies, when time torments his tender flesh; through tempestuously violent slipstreams The gale

Lost memories

He was once a boy, too, Although I didn’t know him then He was never one to share His how, his why, or when He grew He loved He lost, He reared He lived He died. Scattered in the mountains, On an autumn’s austral breeze What then became the resting place, For his lifelong memories

The ring

The ring, everlasting; sometimes, unbidden, he can feel its annulus metallic chill, the phantom sensation and horripilation of an infinitely symbolic, twisted lemniscate; an unraveling thereof, which is no less forever When möbius memories turn aback, he’ll depress the hoop seeking an idyllic, rockwellian innocence, one that he was never comfortable wearing; a pressing reminder

Swaddle me, Suffer

Swallow me, Sorrow That I may choke on the rotten soil in vivisepulture; fodder for the screwworms, fare for the dermestids, swell the bellies of scavengers with the fattened tormentors, yet spare me the escape of peaceful death Punish me, Misery Bruise and abuse me in my isolated tenebrosity; give no quarter, spare no skin

Strident brio

He bared his heart with timidity, and with brio was cast aside He feared for marked insanity, with the many times he’d tried The booming beat within his breast, hushed lunacy’s strident calls Until he stilled his throbbing heart, when then those voices died art: Anomalie 7 by Eric Lacombe

Symphony

Still I feel a symphony of agony, though the blind see it not; consumed by self-serving inter- pretations and cheshire duality, a moment not taken to vivisect nascent dubeity for the benefit; ensconsed in backstabbing morality, mercurial quicksand, planting seeds in a wasteland, only to witness the struggle; honesty would bear fruit consentiently, yet the

Lavender

Lavender tales in an Elysian meadow, a collection of amaranthine processions; A yawning field of violaceous yarn, regaling grand stories redolent of mythical horizons and sweet tranquility art: by Werner Van Steen

The box

Dust in a box, uninteresting save its progenitor; in truth, a mere pacifier for those grieved souls Redwood blonde, lined by age, once a titan of might, now molded into an honorable death, at Its behest Lifeless plaques, shiny tchotchkes of distraction, adornments scarred by dates past and words empty; Human constructs, ill-befitting records and

Spaces

He paces throughout this prison, barred by the abandoned spaces, only remnants of remembrances, naught remaining in periphery breathing subject to parsimony, being always reticent to continue, heaviness of heart to aching joints, he can’t embrace the empty spaces rather he zealously oppugns reality, avoids the missing yet not unseen, at the mercy of the

Forsaken

Plight unseen within his sombrous haunt, he whispers wolf as not to draw its attention, for it is real in its agency and monstrosity Turned aside, his whispered cries, as part and parcel of an Alicine adventure on his dark side, despite the blantancy of a soul barest lain A horse carriage canters within his

Cacophony

His sub rosa screams are cacophonous Reverberating echoes, his remaining amity Confined within his dermal sarcophagus Alive and buried, his demons lurk relentlessly art: finis coronat opus by Peterio

Void a void

The stalwart walking chalk outline, a bone-white sillage swirling behind, in a dramatic paisley murmur of aloof pursuit; his barely throbbing corsage sheds its wet petals for a burgandy- pasted path of disenchantment; my steps slow in the crimson sludge, as I desperately grasp at the beckoning cloud; chasing Plutonic perfection, what I was meant

I wouldn’t

I could try to unsee the seen I could try to unhear the heard I could try to unfeel the felt I could try to untaste the salt I could try to unlove the loved And I would disrespect the time art: A Troubled Soul by Ferdinand Hodler

Needlestack

Overwhelmed in a subsumption of rapier steel, a slender stalk of hay in the needlestack, every eye encircling him in judgement; each piercing their displeasure in a mental bloodlet, no hand would brave the chromium cage that traps his bridled rage, lest they too be lashed; no way to thread an escape, he sets to

Out of love

I made him suffer, out of love; I took his life, out of love; I will die, completely out of love art: At Eternity’s Gate by Vincent Van Gogh *08.13.18.18.52

Homage

Paying homage through pain and suffering, any distraction an afront to his memory, any relief a disgrace to his tenderness; my love will abide until the falling pall of darkness flutters to rest upon my eyes, and the final tear to streak my cheek has dried; an hourglass of ashes, counting down the sentence; a

Perfect storm

Enveloped by nubilous darkness Transfixing the lightning seams Entreating, bolts for forgiveness And a coalescence of solidarity Deafening, the raucous thunder Rendered silent by a lesser man Listening to every transgression Synchrony without and within Consumed by torrential offerings Pouring heart and passion forth Inundated by tearful effluxion Drowning in sympathetic remorse Touched by the

Turmoil

Bloody knuckles and broken heart, barbaric breathing in tender breaths, uneasy lies the head that wears the frown, weighted memories, life bereft; wall of innocence, dotted hue, departed love, the vacuum filled; fester, blister, boiling blood, dawns the night in unexpected bruises; now with eyes, the wall stands judgement, mock the man in swelling weakness;

Serenely sleep

sweet smother, serenely sleep the shadows sense wherein to creep a raptor whispers secrets keep slip away in silence masked madness, molly please free of freedom, binding frieze foolish hope on mindless seize alacritous alliance when upon an umbrous sleuth awakened awe uncovered truth overwhelmed with unctuous ruth rebarbative reliance tripped and taut, cataract gleam