Dark night hours,
I wrestle
with the fallen angels
in dreaming times,
he fights me
to make me bleed
and I am sweaty hot,
weary from the war.
I wept for you monster,
doomed to repeat
bad habits
as if fate liked
licking your ankles
and staying after
all the other shiny guests
had left,
she crawls into bed with
you and watches you sleep.
Death seemed to
keep me as
her servant,
bound and gagged,
screaming
with sadness
so loud
I assumed I awoke
the universe
who consequently didn't seem to
have a care
and fell back down
to soft beds,
fluffy down pillows,
with warm others,
snuggling her through
the cold night
as I lay sobbing sleep
every twilight
since I can seem
to recall.
Jordan and I
were the closest of
soul blood,
bonded together brethren,
and now
he's been taken from me
and I am left here
to fight these nasty growling,
gnashing teeth to my skin,
demons,
all alone.
In a world of trauma, crumbling cultural systems and shifting identities, we must write from our Third-Eye. All entries below are an attempt to do so... You can also find me here. https://www.facebook.com/propheticintrospection
Old Times
I feel broken,
completely scattered,
my body
and spirit parts spread
to the end of
the multiverse
and beyond.
The tea whistles
at me,
it seems to be easier
to trust appliances
than people
in this strange
grey fog time
where words don't
come
but these
ragged ravaged
throaty sounds,
spat out in a cabin
in the marshes
of New Orleans,
whispering mantras
and old spells
no one but
the trees
remember.
Ravens recall,
harken back
to Michigan pine smells
and snow
shuffling with
brothers,
brethren through
the forest,
someone to have
my own language with,
dancing in the water
with the dragonflies
landing on me,
the sun streaming down,
for just a warm,
fuzzy,
hello.
completely scattered,
my body
and spirit parts spread
to the end of
the multiverse
and beyond.
The tea whistles
at me,
it seems to be easier
to trust appliances
than people
in this strange
grey fog time
where words don't
come
but these
ragged ravaged
throaty sounds,
spat out in a cabin
in the marshes
of New Orleans,
whispering mantras
and old spells
no one but
the trees
remember.
Ravens recall,
harken back
to Michigan pine smells
and snow
shuffling with
brothers,
brethren through
the forest,
someone to have
my own language with,
dancing in the water
with the dragonflies
landing on me,
the sun streaming down,
for just a warm,
fuzzy,
hello.
The Wandering Thunder
What the rain said
in the deep night,
when she cursed
the sky that birthed her,
hissing next to my ear lobe,
she meant
every,
word,
and I kept her secrets
tucked carefully away
in shadows.
I woke up
feeling old, and
as the sun came up,
wondered how he
keeps pulsing light,
finding the energy
to keep glowing
is beyond me
though something always to
strive for regardless
of the teeth-y world.
Cant quite understand
why the sky can thunder down
shaking the fucking earth,
but can't simply open her
fantastic mouth
and take me inside.