Ardor

Poetry

Amour, amour, the starlit kiss,

the angel’s breathy sigh,

the hand that mends the twist of fate

—turns back the touch of time.

silence wrapped against a heart

that seals the light of sky

the injured touch and brazen stare,

(a fire that will not die)

the whispering of fingertips

along a fevered brow,

the view of moonlight set with morn,

(and carved against a vow)

Amour, amour! the pain of loss,

that met with love of smiling,

the gentle brush of laughter, set

with charm remarked beguiling~

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Settle

Poetry

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she was dressed in black

when they finally took her pulse

and she was bleeding out this sorrow
from the blank spots in her pores

and they promised that tomorrow,
that tomorrow’s gonna come,

but her eyes are set on somewhere deep,
and past the setting sun.

She knows she’ll never shake it,
that sort of crying in her eyes,
and she can feel her body dying
but she knows that it’s not time,

but they said that in the end when
all the sadness is all gone,
that someone’s gonna be there

and they swear they’ll guide her home.

yesterday’s a mystery, but no more than today,
and there’s a solitude in silence

and a heart in disarray,

and she finally finished sewing that one outfit
for the one

who she hopes is gonna be there when her dyin’ is all done

and this one is the story that she’s never gonna tell,
and this one is scraped up knee that bled each time she fell,
and this one is that speck of tear inside of each her eyes,
and this one is the face that she would use for a disguise.

she knows she’ll never fake it,
that sort of dying in her eyes,

  and she’s always sort of bruised
and battered down from time to time,

and by now she knows the ending,
(she’s pretty sure her story’s done,)

so she’s finally gonna’ walk alone
into the setting sun.

Alas

Poetry

Ocean-of-Fire-with-Moon-Wallpaper

a funeral pyre was set for me,

amidst the dark and briny sea

against the stormy background’s woes,
and listless wind’s enchanting throes-

I lost the bet and lost a life,
(sacrificed the stitch for strife)

it’s not if any death will do,
you must be thorough, through and through!

called a name amid the crowd,

but lost the spindle to the shroud,

smashed their smiles and ran along
the battlements adorned in song-

in every truth there lies a lie,
and hopelessness that ambles by,

when twinkles fail to glisten soft,

the flesh that bleeds in time forgot,

if ever there was love in sin,
(and ravagement to wander in)

it’s in the telling, not the tome,
if death should choose to come back home-

Pendulum

Poetry

Image

Because they wouldn’t call the doctor 
For the 730 flight

And they said that she’d be fine if she just
made it through the night

the white pills make you sleepy 
            but the blues will help you wake
when you’re dreaming of a future
without the need for an escape

it’s a curious concussion, ingest the baby,
make it grow
  superlative or not, will tell you
all you need to know

its not the dying, or the living, 

                its just the waiting in the line
its in knowing that tonight
the alcohol will make it fine

and they take and eat and shit
              until they’ve bitten off your hands
and at the stroke of midnight
  you get the list of their demands

porcelain or poison-mix the cup and 
drink it down
because this scream is faintly dreaming
                belladonna in the crown

and your teeth will all be useless,
                    and your skin will go away
and your eyelids will be heavy
              when you’re dressed in your decay

but the curtain never closes,

it just lifts its head and sighs
    because the tide of the illusion
is just a waking lullaby