When I was young, I built a throne of roses,
and said, “One day it’ll be I who sits
there, with a scepter of silver
in my hands and a beaded
crown woven into my hair.”
But shadows are tricky creatures, my friend,
and they stretched across the lands
with fingers that drained the blood
from my skin and cast
my heart in dusk.
Now I am old, and sit upon a throne of thorns,
with broken glass plaited
into my hair, and a bone dagger
in my hands that weeps
tears of red.
This bloodied blade is cleaner than I,
for its hilt still gleams like the day
it was forged, with black eyes of
diamond encrusted in
its body and silver
steel strewn
along its
neck.
These
hands of mine
are bloodier than
my blade, for they’ve seen
the red clash of war and passed
over countless weeping women and
babes, without daring to beg forgiveness
for being the one who silenced their sons.
If I could dance like a gypsy
all the world would be my fair,
and the swelling night would shimmer
like beads dangling in my hair.
If I could sing like a gypsy
no other voice would compare,
for my song would bleed brokenness
like the pain before a prayer.
If I could play like a gypsy
my pan flute would be the air,
and the earth would tremble at my tune
like a doe caught in a snare.
If I could live like a gypsy
I’d perform in the bright square,
before the world I’d light my fire;
before all I’d make my dare.
The wizened crow sang me a song
of blue fire that
melts the flesh off your bones,
and violet mountains that hunger
for the sky. I did not know
what any of that meant
at the time, but I smiled,
and nodded.
The wizened crow sang me a song
of needles that fly
and pierce the skin of the earth
and broken bows that fling
their sorrow into
the sea. I laughed, for
it did not make any sense
to me.
The wizened crow sang me a song
of assassins who weep
and armies that crumble to dust
in the heat of battle, before the
sun bleeds over their corpses. I
shook my head
and walked away, for it
was all nonsense.
The wizened crow sang me a song
of a fate further
than the stars, and a lonely wanderer
reaching into the dark,
with nothing but the snow on her back
and a heart in her hands.
I looked at him, and wondered
why.
The wizened crow sang me a song
of crippled worlds
and torn puppet strings, and at first
I didn’t hear him.
But now I sit
and train my ears, and
all I do is
listen.
Welp, here’s a free-verse. I wanted to try my hand on a “speed” poem, so I didn’t take any more than ten minutes on this.
I am not controlled
by the worming beast that nests
within my body.
I am stronger still
for the scathing claws it wields
can never rule me.
I will never stop
waging my long fought battle
against its army.
I am more than this
disease, so its fatal hands
won’t ever mold me.
I recently lost someone young to cancer, and I’ve been reflecting a lot on her message lately. Though I never knew her that well, she was always so cheery and positive, and made everyone feel like they were her best friend. Which I think was true; she was best friends with everyone. And more than anything, she never let the disease rule her. This string of haikus is my feeble attempt at paying tribute to her and her incredible and heartbreaking journey.
You stitch the stars with
brittle fingers that tremble
as the night expands.
A seamstress of dusk,
you paint the sky in coral
when the sun descends.
You breathe life where there’s
dark, your children of the night
wake at your sweet hands.
Oh, Mother of Murk,
bend the black in swelling shades-
govern the night lands.
This is one of my first attempts at a haiku quartet. Somehow the last syllable of each stanza ended up in cadence- but maybe that’s just my innate desire to make everything rhyme!
Your breath is like ashes
that flake off your lips
and your voice is the smoke
that shades an eclipse.
With words blacker than blood
you streak the sky red
and your eyes burn a fire
that devours the dead.
The white mask you model
serves a waxen shield
that born against virtue
wrecks the playing field.
Lies act as your arrows
and spite is your mace,
my steel and rusted words
crumble in their place.
But my armor’s iron
and plated with gold
so your blade won’t bite me
or melt down my mold.
This black battle you wage
with crimson-tipped spears
is all smoke and cinders
that thaw futile fears.
For the crows you unleash
to pick at the dead
leave my body intact
and tear yours instead.
They painted me red
in a sea of black,
and I laughed, I think, as I fought them back.
My steel kissed more flesh
than iron and stone,
but I’m not a killer, at least, not on my own.
I won’t be remembered
as gallant and brave,
for this crimson snow shall bury my grave.
But it makes no difference
that I live or fall,
I would say my friends were dead, if I had any at all.
They bit out our pride
as they burned our barricade,
but I was immortal, you see, I couldn’t fade.
Now the sky spits fire
on a sea of roiling reds,
and moaning ghost ships wave their flags in shreds.
I’m accustomed to pain,
Agony’s but a quest,
I’d get up, mind you, if not for these arrows in my chest.
I have not been beaten,
my soul’s not yet reaped,
But I’m weary, you see, all I want is to sleep.
They painted me red
as the stars smiled on,
I may die here, I think, but I’ll never be gone.
I hear the laughs, the cruel, barking laughs,
Like a gull hears an oncoming storm.
I hear the whispers, the croaking, wet whispers,
Before their owners even take form.
The sneers reach my ears and my eyes start to tear,
As the shadows elongate on the floor.
They trudge as they judge with an unjustified grudge,
I tense up; preparing for what’s in store.
What did I do to provoke them this way?
Was it something I did? What did I say?
Their dedicated contempt is a wrench in the side,
A brutal reminder that I am despised.
I know I don’t deserve this leering and spite,
So why does it keep me awake at night?
Sticks and stones may sting, they say words are just small,
But it is those words that are the most degrading of all.
This is something I wrote about a year back. Pretty much everyone has gone through one form of bullying or another at some point in their life, whether they be young or old. This is a tribute to those who struggle against verbal or any other kind of abuse. Stay strong, because it does get better.
What’s in the stars?
Is it the matter of men?
Is it the dust of the world,
The meaning of when?
Alight and aloof,
Can they even comprehend
That they’re the dawn of all things,
Beginning and end?
Do you believe
That the stars govern us all
That we are subject to fate
And in the end must fall?
Or are they but
Witnesses to this time and place,
Gazers on a world and realm,
An age and a race?
Do they behold
Our sickness, sadness and strife?
Do they laugh at our weakness,
Our flaws and our fright?
Or do they brush
Our actions with fated flare?
Are they harbingers of fortune
Or grim doomsayers?
What’s in the stars?
A question best left unsaid.
For those fierce beasts of the black
May bear bliss or dread.
Stellular Scribe 