Please don’t stay, Please don’t leave me. Please don’t listen, Please don’t ignore me. Please don’t speak, Please don’t stay silent. Please don’t be there, Please help me. The pain won’t end, The pain won’t go, Will the pain leave with you? Or will it just grow? Want to submit something? Just go here.
Valhalla. (Prose)
It is in the beige evening by the willows and a café restaurant with the golden leaves and their shards on the grounds, covered in a cleansed rain. It is in the illumination of shatters that broke beyond the pale sky that not only writhes among itself, but will be only among a frail sight … Continue reading Valhalla. (Prose)
I’ll Remember.
As I touch the river that trembles upon my weak sunlit torrents upon a gentle lick of lilac, And I shiver upon the pale wisteria of the eventide like a wounded deer, For I wonder upon the dark lavender skies, and their cracked gentle weeping rivers That glint upon the surface below the Acrylic golden … Continue reading I’ll Remember.
Alone.
Inspired by this awesome prompt. There, the shores of lonely remembrance see as to I have brought On the stirring abandoned rivers that are breathless through the shriveled drops of blood, And it is glinted from the wounding sun upon my pale skin that flutters upon the shallow surf, And I, oh, I will be … Continue reading Alone.
In The Stars.
For the present, memory is rattled by the sorrel sobs that do not quell from my bleeding lips And I, now enclosed, in the flowers and darkened furnaces that blemished on my pale skin, I do not know, nor do I remember, but it is through the ashes in my weary palms, On the ghoul … Continue reading In The Stars.
A Red Hyacinth.
We stopped in the primordial catacombs Waiting for the wrinkled aromas unto fresh Italy, And fog that had diverged the roots, laine with fallen roses; And I’ve heard the lonesome flow around the shore, Unrest among the madmen and women in the streets, And no more betwixt the gleaming roads, and yellow winters From before—“Let … Continue reading A Red Hyacinth.
Morning Snow. (Prose)
Primordial of the language havocs the ghost, havocs the charring wood, as it hushes the daylight by the opaque fog above a motionless hillock, and I feel the strangeness of the fire arose from the bejeweled brooks, and faded, golden rivers, strung by the heat, I wander as the ocean meets the shore and I … Continue reading Morning Snow. (Prose)
Shadow of the Dream.
Buried under the heaps of the apple pommes, The pomace piled on the path of rain, And we were on the dim stones and bloodroots And stamped, feeding fleurs de lotus; The moon pardons in a red silence, a crying reverie, And it hosts light; begot blue springs, Buried under the flickering of its flower, … Continue reading Shadow of the Dream.
Half-Frost.
Keep your dead lilies, Two reared seeds. And the crisp red triste Of a cherry blossom Grows by the peas, Of the blue afterglow On the sameness of his laugh. As red wallops stifled cicada wood, The epistle chokes in the water; it’s been awhile. Scurf of a half Frost; marked their caged, primped words … Continue reading Half-Frost.
Perfume Loring…. (Prose)
I. Perfume loring, turning, hedged to the twitching, to the crying moon like sutler, silk drowns muses flesh and bone, stitches on fatty quilts, wanting warmth, muttering, muttering through whispers, begged by praying hands, I hate this place. Promise like a shadow pecked against the incant, restores like Lazarus. Crypts cites damaged; Similar to la … Continue reading Perfume Loring…. (Prose)
A Night Walk. (Prose)
Pennies and old skeletal-like lining threads slip out from the rafters of the grey old well in the mall—search in for the coin, fiddle with it, the dirt croaks under nails, like the bridal hem that touches the base of the floral steps, patterned by the picturesque; rib of man; “leave a stone at my … Continue reading A Night Walk. (Prose)
“You bring me the Sun and Moon…” By A Chief Among Sinners.
You bring me the Sun and Moon at your pale weary palms, Your tilted wrists glinted with dew drops of sweat, You hold the Sun, exerting faint balmy breaths of gold on your right hand, And you grasp the pale white- lit rippling silver pool iris of the Moon on your left, You took the … Continue reading “You bring me the Sun and Moon…” By A Chief Among Sinners.
Condemn
Word count: 145
Warning: A lot of sadness
Silence.
Silence is golden,
Silence is precious,
Silence keeps me safe.
My mind is a void,
An overflowing, overthinking
Boisterous void which comforts me,
Consoles me, builds me up and
Breaks me down, exploits my fears,
Beats me within an inch of my soul
In one second.
And yet, my mouth can’t form the words
I desperately want to say,
It stutters, it hesitates,
It remains silent.
The words remain in my mind,
Only released on paper
Or Microsoft Word..
The silence is maddening.
It is not golden or precious,
It harms me instead of protecting me –
It screams in my mind yet
Refuses to let even a hum escape.
Please, please set me free
From the bonds of your cruelty,
For once let me say what’s on my mind
Without fear of judgment or disappointment.
I’d do anything to get…
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I’ll Keep. (Prose)
At the flares of rivers, flames crackle studded and dead when they withdraw from the cold. The darkness recedes over the bejeweled haycocks crying, as my torrent of blood flourishes like a blue weeping violet, rock-strewn to the near hill-side at midnight; I pardoned myself to the wall flowers as the wind vanishes above the … Continue reading I’ll Keep. (Prose)
Firewood.
An ale river Between the mountains Reels by holy mist. Dead in the Eden, The land, the land, Screaming on the Aragon valley, “Beyond fragile lips Of a bleeding, tormented river, It is lost as the seashore, And is caressed by mothering wind, In the crimson river, confined by silence Which salutes the pre-winter to … Continue reading Firewood.
I’m Sorry.
Silence, It is memory. Leaf fallen, Midnight wind, west, I said, “I’m sorry.”
Vaudeville (I wake as rivers run).
I. The moon casts its eye, In little carts, A vaudeville into the night. II. I wake in morning River flows down Crestmore, Wounded by a psalm, expelled alone. III. Down the old university, immersed, By the cathedral with petite western virgins flowers, On revered bungalows With an old torchlight, the ruins of Rome. IV. … Continue reading Vaudeville (I wake as rivers run).
My Hope Arises.
To Accede Into My Own Desires. II. A treatise in the eye of nightfall Severed by my tears in hope, in desire, Upheld in breadth of bell flowers, My hope arises, attested to divinity Immersed by a winter season, deemed solace, As the solstice nurses the night to dead squills. And I pray, inclined to … Continue reading My Hope Arises.
As I Mourn a Flower.
As the rose adorns The mourning river secedes in Yorkshire skies. I give my love to the flower of pears, In velvet array on the vineyards, A vestige in a nightly soul Passed by a little eye of the moon Darker than winston smoke. The water does flow gently Onto a ballad of the dark … Continue reading As I Mourn a Flower.
Of Death.
When your shrine of Death kisses and weeps, It bows that death of stream with washes of rapt echoes, When exclaimed, the vaults of sorrow through valleys ago, I should again be silenced by eidolons where no dream reaps, Where no dream wallows in the grown, endless shift that tailed Fires through some old stone, … Continue reading Of Death.
