(no subject)

I feel as though I've done something horribly wrong again.



Have I?

::: Prairie Red :::

burgeoning
fields rusted shut
reddened by the harshness
that we all live by
earth to feed and grow
dry beneath our feet

walking slowly
prairie grass like tiny hands
begging
reaching out for us
like the lion's maw

dusty futures
clouding our eyes
blinding us from starvation
senseless tasting
of what could never be
believing

::: The Daily Cycle :::

evening strikes me
breaking heavily across my skin
leaving its marks behind
dark and brooding
violently thunderous in passing

where is my starry sky,
eaten by the hungry morning?
old daylight hails and salivates for the moon
dusky afterthoughts
forgiven by the afternoon tea

::: Footnote :::

just a little scarecrow
pecking at the shards of life
like they actually mean something
should they?
perhaps when all of history is written down
it might even make a mention
I would love to be your footnote

there are ravens in my mind
their presence suggests
you were never truly here at all
but how can that be
when you've made such a change
in who I am?
even the wisest among us lie

that was never me
though it might be you
close at hand, far from thought
echoing the sound
of this darkly beating heart
now cold and still
caught in the pages of your history

::: Phoenix :::

there is no fear in death, only living
and lo' to rot when passed away
makes room for further growth
no phoenix from these ashes, but a sapling
sprung green from pain

released from the ecstasy of fear
it is madness
driving onwards beyond capacity
emptied veins are cold city streets
left behind without meaning

intention to kill
to make way for our resurrection
it is lies, just another revolution
when the pen is just a melody
and joy surrenders to yet another god

and these gods that are abandoned
always they circle
swooping down to reclaim the corpses
in order to make room for the decay
picking moral fibre from the bones

::: Blood Goddess :::

blood, blood, blood
it's all you think about these days
you goddess of tiny little things
always waiting for a sacrifice

but who would be your victim?
you have no worshippers left
no grand surrender of will
there is no love for your temple

no man curses in your holy name
nor swears by your grace and beauty
pleasure or pain, no woman sings
even the stains on your altar are memory

though once your mouth was full
greedy and red with excess
you are diminished, defeated
wandering among the hungry dead

and what do I complain about most?

Study shows loneliness makes people cold.


Thoughts?