The Ruins of Open Wounds

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Her eyes were both wide and meek

The sides, verbose yet incomplete

There’s a siren by my chest

Whispering the sweetest sounds—

Caressing skin writhed in some past-lived ecstasy

Painted rainbows twist and swirl,

From peaks fervent bright,

To tracts of clay buried miles

Neath where seas once stirred it’s might

But still I couldn’t speak

For A mountain I’d become,

Crumbling—at first came down the minaret,

Wobbling spires traipsing the hymnals ever worn

The head, the heart, the arms

Deride brutalities unearned—persist until

Obstructed visions collided forth upon each sect of fast fulfilled,

All that lives is all that’s died

Beneath the trellis moon

Commingling amongst a fragrant sky

The last steps of this laundered dance

Elucidate each moment that led to this,

A parade of never standing—

Amassed in shards of slivered signs

Scars of vitriol’s past,

Unleash hollowed warbling’s unto

The clouded veils preceding the hours

Prior to the separation of world’s imbued

At the foothold of echoic reenactment,

A pawn in princely attire steps,

Upon the golden throne—unnoticed,

Until all that’s left is a replica

Of some other’s would-be tomb—

A masquerade proven unresolved

In this obligatory palace that remains in ruins

A Song for the Doubter

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You got people telling you

You don’t know what your doing

You got people telling you

You got no place pursuing

                                                  But they don’t know

              But they don’t know

Just cause something’s never been done

Don’t mean it can’t be done

Illogical (E-Lodge-Ick-Uhl)

Is

Phenomenal (Fee-Nom-N-Uhl)

When the

Impossible (Imp-Pah-Sip-Uhl)

Becomes

Probable (Prah-Bib-Uhl)

Then real (Re-Uhl), then real (Re-Uhl)

You got people telling you

There’s no point in dreaming

You got people telling you

There’s no reason for believing

You got people telling you

There’s no chance at succeeding

     But they don’t know

              But they don’t know

Just cause something’s never been done

Don’t mean it can’t be done

Illogical (E-Lodge-Ick-All)

Is

Phenomenal (Fee-Nom-N-All)

When the

Impossible (Imp-Pah-Sip-Uhl)

Becomes

Probable (Prah-Bib-Uhl)

Then real (Re-Uhl), then real (Re-Uhl)

Always going to be people saying

There’ll always be someone talking

But they’re isn’t ever going to be

Someone like you/Someone like me (Repeat while fading out)

Timing

Din is driven by a mentality cluttered by the noise of second’s expiration.  The cuckoo’s voice erupts at new sixties peak; perhaps, for some nadir, perhaps for some, nadir

Numerals escalate and descend, slashed and severed, if but for a moments glance. Thrashing to commencement, in an elapsed respite never to arrive anew.  This is true, very true.

Portent looming undoubtedly draws and expires. Crescendos rise and mergers meld. Confluence is inevitable, only its perception can be swayed; only perception can be swayed.

Purpose wavers not, yet design can be reconditioned. Whether wontedly framed or crafted to a future glimpsed, it’s function remains, ignorant to change, ignorant to change.

Faster, turning in revolution. Circle, persisting in syncopation. Morning ever reaches night, as is continuity’s design, lest, of course, if batteries should fail, lest if the battery should die.

Never altering pacing’s creed, each minutia’s never to repeat. Sounding still or pealing high, some build toward elation, others are solely bled to cry, others solely bred to cry.

Some stare in anticipation when predictability is ever known. Some ignite their todays by the voices of a tomorrow never told. Ever waiting for a second hand, a second hand to hold.

Head on over to D'Verse for this latest installment of Meeting The Bar, where Victoria is revisiting imagist poetry, yet offering a zinger of a twist.  She does a great job explaining the theme more fully and offers some wonderful examples in her article, which I strongly encourage all to read.  So, head on over, read the article, link up your poem and then sit back and enjoy the work of the other poets of D'Verse.

Snuffed

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I can’t help but feel

The douter nears

My flame.

“Time’s just ain’t a –changin’ the way I thought they would.  I blinked and here I am, seventeen years since first able to legally imbibe, and now, I don’t anymore…speaks upon how priorities are skewed early on in life”

And now

I just wonder and wonder and think about how I can wonder

and….think

I’ll meander the aisle-ways at the superstores, looking for deals or just people watching, to kill some time…sometimes though, a thought while strikethrough my stagnancy…a true brainchild of inspiration…a method or a way out of what…

all sensors working, all lights a-flashing, so, so encouraged…filled with anticipation and excitement….

Only to relive…to be relieved by the exact same moment of euphoria, just a few days later…

Time is a pit of quicksand and sometimes you have a vine to pull you out and other time’s it’s nothing but a snake, dangling, right in front of you, tempting you, to grab ahold and let it pull you out

Days merge into decades as easily as hair changes brown to a trickling in of grey and you wonder-you wonder, much differently than you would while blanketed by sweet

sweet 

oblivion.

11:55, service will start soon

I’m just trying

To make sure

God still lives in here,

Would hate to

Stumble upon

Any more

black masses,

where

 as 

      not to come

off 

     as 

rude,

I find myself listening 

to every 

god-forsaken

word

At least that shows I still know what pathetic looks like. ONly wish I could divine it 

as I stare each whisker down in the morning mirror, then perhaps, then perhaps

I can stave off elimination for another hour or two

just enough time to make it... yet another case for myself,

and hope to find 

the hand that will guide me down the path, 

and not become distracted 

by those sales in 

                         the bargain racks

wonder if having a semblance of what faith really is when you don't enact on it, just letting it be part of the background scenery

When the douter comes to snuff my flame…I wonder what excuse I will then choose to blame?