Titan- a set of Haikus

"Shadow Girl" by Ranka Delic
Shadow Girl” by Ranka Delic

A voice inside me
hums a forgotten hymn that
only I can hear.

“You are a titan,”
it whispers against my cheek,
“So what do you fear?”

“Nothing,” I murmur
unconvincingly, and I
look the other way.

“You’re lying,” it sneers,
“You’re a titan, yet you dread
the chaste light of day.”

“That’s not true,” I say,
as I shoo its shadow back.
“Don’t feed me your lies.”

It slithers ‘round my neck
and laughs: “I see how it is!
You’re what you despise.

“You are a titan,
yet you fear yourself, quaking
at your reflection.

“You are no titan,
titan’s don’t hide in the dark,
seeking affection.”

I lower my lids
as the voice worms in my skin,
boiling as I cry:

You are what I feared,
but not anymore, because
your lips leak foul lies.

“I am a titan,
great conqueror of the world,
unmatched and unbent.

“You are a snake,
watch as I step on your scales-
see if I relent.”

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Your Promise- an original poem

Dark Fantasy Wallpaper by Unknown
Dark Fantasy Wallpaper by Unknown

A promise
is like wax-
at first it seems firm,
and honest and true,
but then you
lick it with fire,
and it melts
between your fingers-
scorching your skin
as it lines it
with cracks.

You lit the candle
that cast shadows
against my face-
and at first
I thought you
were giving me light,
sweet and unsoiled,
until you yanked
my fingers
over the
blaze.

Your promise
was like wax,
for at your first fire
it fused to my flesh-
and now I
am wax,
hardened yet weakened,
and if you look
closely enough,
you will see my
cracks.

Phantoms- an original poem

"Ivana" by Remton
Ivana” by Remton

If you look close enough,
you’ll be able to see the phantoms
swimming in my eyes.
Fear not, for I am not governed
by shifting shadows that whisper
impossibles against my skin.
No, I only house them,
and carry them on my cloak for all to see-
so that the world will know
my sin.

I was a child of the night, once-
long ago, I sunk into
the murk’s bitter embrace,
wrapping my arms around her
black heart and lifting it
lightly to my lips.
The shades were my sisters,
and poison was my toast,
and together we’d get drunk on toxic
sips.

I know you see the demons
dancing in my eyes, but they are dying beasts-
for I have closed my lids
and plunged them into putrid darkness.
I ascended my axe and lopped off their limbs,
leaving them to molder and rust.
My hands reek of wrongs,
but my armor is clean, and it gleams
like polished silver as my phantoms fade
to dust.

All Is Still Until- an original poem

"Ghost Ship: a legend of oceans..." by Marko Jakobi
Ghost Ship: a legend of oceans…” by Marko Jakobi

The labored groan of a defeated mast
heaves along with the sighing waves,
lamenting on the rising winds,
remembering a sun-speckled age…
releasing into a sea so vast
each base sorrow, thinned and skinned.

All is still…
Until…

Threads of wind slip through the boards,
dancing into a bare ballroom,
their feet slipping beneath a sheet of brine
as they whistle to a long lost tune.
A siren scream invites the fire
that waltzes across the purple sky;
the gods begin their drunken grumblings,
while the deck beneath their voices sighs.

Rain plays and pulls at tattered tarps,
laughing as it’s stolen by the gale;
a surge of sea embraces the bridge,
lingering behind to kiss the sails.
The chandelier, greened by the years,
staggers aimlessly along the beams,
the shouts and bouts of gods in feud
increase the tempo of flitting streams.

But a shadow swims beneath the ball,
angered by the noise and calls.
With claws of midnight he reaches slow
and scrapes the keel in one swift blow.
The party lurches…
The tempest trains his ear sideways,
the lightning pauses, the thunder stays,
the surf slips off the deck in fear,
the rain retreats, the winds still to hear…

All is still…
Until…

A low howl drips from the mast like wax…
so wrought with agony and crimson pain,
that it bends in submission to the beast below,
and offers up its wrists in chains.
The sea, reluctantly, stifles its cry,
and soothes its splinters with weeping swells.
The wind hums a mournful, gray tune,
and sprints across waves in a wistful spell.

Then with one last plea it sinks into the sea,
and the gods stand by in open-jawed awe,
wondering how their ball had gone so wrong-
wondering if it was they who prompted its fall.

The shadow smiles beneath a sea in torment
as it pulls the ship close to its chest-
“You’re lonely no more,” he whispers in velvet,
“Now sleep, my child. It’s time to rest.”

Stranger- an original poem

"The Stranger" by TomEdwardsConcepts
The Stranger” by TomEdwardsConcepts

People ’round here don’t take kindly to strangers.
Maybe it’s our smell, or just the look of us-
the look that says we’ve seen things, dark things,
things that’d turn any normal man’s innards into pulp;
things that’d transform a soldier into a suckling babe.
People don’t take kindly to strangers.
People don’t take kindly to me.

They don’t even have to know my name, or where I hail from-
I’m a stranger, that’s all there is to it, and I have
destruction sewn into my cloak,
and misery slashed across my lip.
They’ll look, but not for long, and their eyes’ll find
sudden interest in the stones of the street,
and their whispers’ll carry into
uncharted territories, with uncertainty
weaved into their tones.

I’m a ghost to them, a phantom blotted with grime and blood,
here to haunt their way of life, to mark the dirt
with my suffering and sadness,
to make them like me. No, they think,
as they watch me from their windows.
No, it can’t happen here.
No, he can’t happen here.
I’m a harbinger of what lies beyond their walls-
I am the absence of security.
But I’m not what they fear.

People ’round here don’t take kindly to strangers.
Maybe it’s the hardness to our jaws that outlines
a life of unseeable sights, or maybe it’s the shadows in our eyes,
the shadows that flicker against stony stares,
serving as a reminder that there is a hell.
People don’t take kindly to strangers.
People don’t take kindly to me.

The Wanderer- an original poem

"Wanderer" by Marcodalidingo
Wanderer” by Marcodalidingo

There’s a mark on my map,
inked in oil and scratched in haste,
with a moaning mountain
scrawled beside it;
its peak laced in smoke
and dust.

There’s a line on my map,
drawn like a jagged smile across
the plains, eternally sneering
upon the compass,
daring it to falter and turn
its gaze.

There’s a sea on my map,
draped in rolling waves that peak
like summits, tempted to
swallow the earth
and drown the journey before it’s
begun.

There’s a chance on my map,
not rubbed in charcoal or sketched with quills,
but bleeding from beneath the
parchment, as if begging
the wanderer to become the
seeker.

I Must Be A Faceless Man- an original poem

Warrior Knight Horses
Warrior Knight Horses

I must be a faceless man,
for this cup I drink is brimmed with thorns,
and men with faces burn their lips
and choke on bloodied tongues.

I must be a faceless man,
drunk on venom and bitter blood,
and deaf to words that yank on flesh
and shrivel hides to oily sludge.

I must be a faceless man,
nameless like I was never born,
for men with names dole out their hearts,
and shed their skins for empty words.

I must be a faceless man,
for this dish I taste bites back with teeth,
and men with faces tuck their tails,
and rip at their bellies with rounded claws.

I must be a faceless man,
unbent and unbroken in a land of tears,
for faceless men must be the breakers
and igniters of the frozen years.