The Ember

The void of oxygen hurt,
It clenched its throat;
Strangling the air out,
The last wisps it'd held to.
It shivered and withered
As the icy remnants of it
Fought to stay alive.
Shrivelling as slugs in salt,
It heaved laboriously
And took that one final breath. 

The Skeletons of Paranoia

That familiar mist slinks around.
Heart pounding. Thoughts burning.
Thud, thud, is all I can hear now.

The second hand drags on by;
Strung up, like a marionette doll
I jerk, this way and that, I cry.

Fingers tremble with each word,
As the cold sliver of steel feasts,
Screeching, my soul it clawed.

I know it's there, yet you insist
Smoothly wooing my beliefs
Towards, "It does not exist."


The voices fade away to deathly silence.

Jesień

It fluttered down slowly,
Palming the currents,
All colour leeched
By the harsh cold winds
Of the settling winter.

It rested on the ground,
Soon to be dissolved
Into bleak nothings;
To be trod upon
By the quick soles.

Many a moon phase
Steadily crept on by,
The stark barrenness
Rising into the dark,
Watching, waiting.

Storm

The dark grey clouds, she saw
Creeping in, ever thickening.
She slowly closed her eyes,
Exhaling her frustration
And willing the grey away.
She opened her eyes calmly,

The skies were an ominous black;
The colour of ravens.
The bearers of omens.

Embracing herself, she blinked
Rapidly; her head twitched
slowly, then vigorously.
An escaped loon, some might think
She cared not. She must rid herself;
These vapours she would cast away.

Else her soul would be consumed;
Such as maggots on dead flesh.
Such as rats amidst a midden.

Fists clenched, she whimpered
For she felt the drops on her skin,
Nor could her ears be plugged.
She cried out, feeling the sting
As acid rain, those drops fell;
Blistering the pockmarked skin.

In despair, Heavenward she looked
And there beheld a Brilliance
So pure and white.

She could see the other side. 

Sweet Peace

That gentle swish,
An unseen shackle
Melting softly out.
Sweet, sweet peace
Seeping inside;
That freedom,
So desperate
Was I then,
Now my own.

Sweet, sweet peace:
Unfathomable.
Beautiful.
Transcendent.

Divine. 

Shrouds

You cloak yourself in grey shrouds
Yet what lies beyond is far purer;
All intent on smiles in and around
Yet you're rarely really full of it.

My heart is proud when I watch you
Heavy when I can't bring it to you;
Lost years ago and still lost now
Perhaps never to be found again...

Unless that little picket is broken
And you leap across, arms open;
To embrace what lies before you
And to open your heart and believe

That those shrouds are not for you.
They don't belong on you, not ever;
The Red cloak makes everything new
And you have been made worthy

Of the highest Honour.

Murmur

A soft swish of the tongue
That slip to the next rung;
This social art so ancient
Innate in the omniscient.

Gestures, as slight be they,
Slight more than you say.
A bond not so strong
Just will not last long;

With these murmurs.