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.

Prehex (bliss)

And she dabbles in the dark arts,

She said she needs a spark,

Perhaps another way,

For that feeling you'll find today,

She says she needs a purpose,

A calling, a direction,

I believe she's just searching, crawling,

About the grassy knolls, and in each fold,

Simply put she's looking to be apart of something,

And once you travel down this path,

Murky shadows will retract,

The voices, once unheard,

Whisper loud like singing birds,

The mastery, the mystery,

The infamy, the sorcery,

But what will she do,

When the evil grows so large, so demanding,

The way everyone warned it one day would?

But by the realization bit,

She’ll be on cue, she'll be spell bound, corrupted,

Nothing ill, No criticism can be said,

She'll hitch her ride and float away,

As for me,

I believe their must be another possibility,

Even still in this state,

There must be an alternate strategy,

Another directive of which to take,

There has to be another way,

To feel, to locate those pieces missed

Transformation of a Girl I knew

At first you’ll dye that blonde away,

Days then weeks we’ll watch it gray,

And now the once bright star we knew,

Transformed as the darkest of hearts within her grew,

Plaster skin,

Shanked smiles and cheshire grins,

The simplest and the deepest,

Overlooked for the most invasive thing you find,

The paradox of course,

Being spooned your wisdom off a convoluted plate,

Without out warning,

From the shadows,

You lurk and crawl,

From the darkness,

You’re likeness sprawls,

Pouncing towards, lashing at,

Any craving within your path,

Out of breath,

It cannot speak,

But the begging is all too clear,

Yet you choose not to hear,

At this point autopilot ensues,

Wickedly easy,

The transformation was,

By the lack of what’s inside now,

Compared to that little girl I knew well,

Without fear hate can take the weak most anywhere.

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.