The Crux of the Hex (A Lullaby of Pain)

A delicate estrangement—an insurrection of high stakes—

The costs beset the murmured voice—jostling for dismay— Panic stills the arches, belittling what’s been frayed

There’s fervor in the accolades and damage in the cup—Tarnishing the wind chimes, deconstructing all that’s loved—

Skewing the firmament in all things corrupt

As addled insteps disable, a forgotten seam is stitched—Contaminating the structures, envisioning the touch—The howl of the banshee—stretching the crux of this hex

Tainted rains stir deceptive—with emotion, syllogisms grow— Windswept and staining, the compositions first possess the truth—eagerly diluting trust, turning friends to foes

Duplicity covets eyestrain, through disjointed combinations—

Furtive glances whisper—each syllable eclipses stillness while dancing in the half-life—abusing the elements of sedation

And as moisture fondles, each symbol demystifies—the salve and the possession—the cymbal and the crutch—caressing the suffocation softly—as do the lullabies of pain

For Open Link Night at D'Verse.  Stop on by and consume some of the best poetry in the world.

A Disconsolate Turns to The Dark Arts for Emotional Support

Tranquility harnessed, by the reigns of fatigue

Birthed by void, cold and terse

Inner-cynics, sparring foot and knee

Balance wavers, so moves forth this curse

Of vapored redress, dark clouds disperse

The covens held, in primal view

A razor shakes, verse to blackened verse

Scratched tongues affirm, each the fears are true

The cauldron’s bewitching path

Its secrets revealed at last

 In highest boil the water finds

Prophecies, both cruel, divine

And standstill you become, paralyses renew

As stake-laid fibers rise again, turning circles will the rope

To tighten knots secure to throat, letting pressure guide its noose

Upon the stains of past, memories faucet empties hope

Paler does the skin then cry, fraying urge faint to cope

As suffocation screams for air, fastest ever beats do start

Strain to push blood’s flow, in this, life’s final trope

First the limbs lilt in languor, and then cede does the broken heart

I thought about composing something especially for Valentine's Day, but instead went this route.  Stop on by to D'Verse for their weekly Open Link Night, read all the great poetry linked up and even link up one of your own.  Pub opens at 3pm.  See you there.

Black Magic Cauldron

Black magic cauldron dry

Bubbled, black, bedazzled skies

Overhang the cluster beneath

Fragments steeped in ancient history

A waterfall of emeralds

Flows its course

Bandaging sockets wide and young

Consumed in lacquer

Basting in amethyst

Marinated by the promising

Empty potions

Blackened spells

Coerced the rivers

Until the mystery quells

3 ladies

Depart the land

Into caverns

With but one eye

Yet futures are known

Swimming in cauldrons

Once jet and onyx

With power so bold

Swirl did the visions

Pronounced by sharp waves

Oh how the magic fades

Oh how the crystal cracks

Oh how the bubbles subside

Been kind of absent from the sharing scene this week.  But thought I'd make a concerted effort today to get a piece into OLN over at D'verse, Still had the water thought going from the other day, so a piece of this poem is paying homage so to speak, for the prompt I missed the other day.  Cheers!

The Ghost

I met an extrovert just the other day,

Funny thing, it actually is,

With my being an introvert and all,

Yes, that and also that he is a ghost,

It was opaque,

With a viewpoint so clear and new,

It did not bellow from the inside out,

As so many of the imitators,

Those portraying his kind in film and on television,

The way they often do,

He was pleasant,

Completely unimposing,

To the trained eye,

One could say,

He acted similarly

To the way we do,

I inquired why he was haunting me precisely,

To which he responded rather cleverly,

Apologetic and nervous, he explained the reason why,

He saw a ghost he met the other night,

To avoid her he dipped through my walls, to get himself out of sight,

Perhaps I was easily duped, but his story sounded entirely reliable

To a person such as myself, one that actually believes in ghosts

Day Six

Six days prior a gypsy said it best….

Without verb or noun, one palm out,

Anticipating, Participating,

Waiting to collect the rain, on an evening it would just not rain, for days now,

 Frayed burlap, dress or coat, dangling, hanging,

Arm outstretched, Left index, pointing straight at me.

If I didn’t believe in witchcraft,

Or proficient like so many in the study of Mathematics,

 144, 8640, 518, 400, Numbers appeared so poignantly,

Atop the skyline, withering in the sky,

Scare tactics in plain view,

Nicotine and Skeletons,

Well…You got yours and I got mine,

But a sign I never would have seen, never would have noticed,

Never would have wondered why,

Six days from then,

Six Days behind me now,

Each day leading towards a point,

Each day lost in a tempest since then,

I have no explanation,

What I did, I don’t know how,

I gathered the strength of ten soldiers,

The quickness of a cheetah cat,

In the frame I’ve been so cursed,

Not to say I don’t have any culpability, but just saying,

How this turned out the way it did,

The way it unfolded, choreographed from the start,

By some Haggard women, pointing at me in the dark,

One girl gives her Thanks,

That smile, that’s enough, perhaps…some day it will,

I shouldn’t shed a single cry,

For those creatures left that night to die,

Crushed in skulls and listless limbs,

Should I even fret for things like this?

No, but yet,

Even knowing what I know,

Seeing the face of the future glow,

I do.