grim feast

i dine on trampled hearts,
and sup on shredded souls.
i prepare them myself
in my private butchery,
(you may call it my kitchen
if you like).
innocently gleaned,
i gather them with words,
each carefully marinated
with broken promises,
seasoned with lies
and unfulfilled desires.
i cook them in my forge
of apathy,
its fires fed
by faggots of indifference.
i could always tell
when it’s well done –
delicious tendrils of memories
(so sweet they bring tears)
would waft and wrap around me
liek a reproach.
when i could bear no longer,
i fill my plate,
and taste the bitter dregs
of lost friendships.

—-
this one is just a reposting .. some of the phrases here are inspired by some card names from the card game Magic: The Gathering… including the title itself…

a dark poem… written when i was a bit, or a whole lot, depressed.. 🙂

calamitous

looking like raindrops oiled,
my future,
blackened by soot, blackened by pollution,
i see,
with eyes soiled
by mind putrid with synapses twisted,
innocence avenued to dark interpretations,
and hands obey,
shattering friendships,
staining lives,
bringing me where i am now,
here, where i am,
having stained lives,
having shattered friendships,
i have obeyed hands
that turned innocence into shadowed alibis,
twisted synapses of a putrid mind,
soiling my eyes,
and all i see,
are polluted, black, and sooted…
and all that my future is,
is raindrops oiled.

sincerenity

that i,
unique,
oblique,
unthesame and so unyou,
will be the monogram
of our united hate,
(we term it discouragement)
overlooking
this fact essential —
that out of all
our seeming difference
lies a thread
undifferent,
woven through this tapestry
that unites,
so familiar,
so akin,
so true —
that we are siblings celestial,
a seed
that can bloom
endless forevers long….

what sense then
this common contention?

conquerer

did you think i have forgotten
after all that i’ve begotten,
using paper, ink, and pen,
using all my wit and ken?

oh, how immature thy faith,
much more fragile than a wraith!
this ain’t fleeting as a breath;
’tis immortal, with no death!

when i promised thee forever,
it thus follows that i’d never
disavow what i aver —
that i love thee, conquerer!

if poetry was blood

if poetry was blood, then i shall bleed a sea!
i shall spurt, nay, fount! a flowing river
that shall rival Nile at Moses’ day,
and neither shall i faint at lifeblood’s loss,
for what i gush forthwith
is hundredfold replaced!

if poetry was blood, then i am poem!
for what courses through my veins
is nothing less than pure intelligence,
rhymes, wit, rhetoric, and the rhythm of the ages!
its source unseen by eyes unspiritual,
my umbilicus reaches celestial spheres,
and with each recital i lose not, but gain,
for with every poem i spill to water fellow-spirits,
lo, i am nurtured too!

if poetry was blood, then i shall red the universe!
i shall not waste a single drop
on dross, on things unworthy
of celestial glory…
and millions of millions of stars someday
shall sing the songs
colored by the cadence of my rhymes!

Talk to Me of Dreams

Like when you told me of your best,
Where you were holding a rose between your lips,
And your masked knight rode by, alit,
And took that blossom, and said
“I have found you.”

That was so beautiful to hear,
The music in your voice was so clear,
I could have sword you knew him,
But you said no,
He never took his mask off.

And there was the one when you ran to me,
Teary-eyed and fretful,
Telling me of a pressing weight on you,
You couldn’t wake up or move,
And you thought you saw a shadow,
By your bed and hovering,
And only by your tremendous force of will
Were you able to move your toes at last and fled.

I was so worried that night,
Thinking how I could have failed
To protect you from these mental ghosts,
And so I sung you your song,
And calmed you,
Kissed your tears away,
And left you pan-led and at peace.

Now you stand before me,
Puzzled by my request of dreams,
But ah, indulge me please,
For look,
Today you hold in your hand the scroll
Of your childhood dreams at last…

You speak of closing doors,
Opening new ones,
So tell me then,
What visions do you behold
In your dreams of tomorrow,
Freed from the halls of academia,
My dearest daughter grown…..

—imagining the future… dreams of the dreams of dreams