Anachoresis

I see a metropolis of swarming bees
with confiscated humanity
yet a hive of activity.
Within a necropolis of entropy
sundered from all ecstasy;
the heaviest of realities.

The horizon reveals another way;
the blue breaking of dawning day
shrouded in Summer’s haze.
The anchorite’s mantle begs me to stay
among desert sands ablaze
devoid from every passing gaze.

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Blue Room

I just want to sit in the darkened room
dwell with the shade until I find my way
through the valley of the faces,
eyes boring down to the basin’s bleed.

I’m biting down hard on my arms now,
trying to find a way to export the pain
but the surfaces are missing,
the waterline has risen,
every contour a threshold in ribbons.

My mind is a carpet of dry grass
leaving me with a sense of unease.
I’m following the tracks of tumbleweed
because thoughts ride tails of upbraided leaves.

I’m reclining on the mattress of eggshells,
shards from the birth of a great disease,
the sickness gives me rest
I am stretched upon the crest
anointed with the tar of a virgin breath.

Beacons

I need something to get me back to you
when it seems that every call drifts within an echo;
when language finds the limit
and my heartbeats will pulse a chill.
I don’t want to lose you to the darkness of distance
but lessons I’ve leaned tell me silence is wisdom
so voiceless I must project my signal.

Lanterns in the sky
or a phoenix in flight.
I beg you to look up,
please just see the light.

The ocean is the world’s greatest thief
and you were no exception as you rode upon its wings.
I guess I was just borrowing you from the sea.
What’s taken’s now returned but don’t think I don’t believe
that you could see about the mountains and trees.

A single fleeting flare,
the moon’s dappled glare
flickering bright in the sky,
is seen from everywhere/
They’re asking you that question;
whether you could still care.

I’ve been burned by my beacons before.
I left them by the line of my shore.
I waited for the crest of each wave.
hoping it would return you again.

Cruelest Hope

This is pathetic. I am pathetic. I am in love.

Like an angel perched atop the greyest cloud,
my heart in it’s hands to which I have avowed.
I promised not to long for joy and love,
lest I displease the holy Gods above.

The scales of judgement offer me no mercy.
My mind is clouded and my view is dirty,
but when I promised that I’d be good and true,
I never anticipated falling in love with you.

Now it’s a story repeated many times before;
we never know what these feelings were for.
But it’s a hot desire replete with adoration
with the underlying coolness of admiration.

Can you tell that I tremble when I talk to you,
balk with humiliation when you leave the room.
But I’m left with such a deceitful possibility
that you might be invested in it for me.
These thoughts are treated with incredulity
but every single day I still hope that you’ll see
that I’m pining so pathetic and obviously,
for you.

Prince Of The Vultures

I think sometimes when someone has angered you a lot, you want to put it in the past and you want to forget about it. There are some times when this is hard, and I guess poetry or any sort of artistic expression is one of the healthier ways of processing feelings. This is based on the hatred I was afforded by my ex-boyfriend and his friends after our breakup, who called me terrible, false and slanderous things over the internet. It helps to remember that they’re simply cowards who find it entertaining to do this kind of thing. And I can remember that I turn my feelings into art whilst all they can do is seethe with hate.

You’re Machiavelli in sable feathers
with a knife concealed in Stygian tar.
Hiding within the thicket of brambles;
a coward dressed in bracken thorns,
commissioning your brood for the attack;
the very last of their nesting days.
Only seeing within your vision,
on a chessboard scoured of truth.
You’re watching from skeleton branches,
untouchable from above you coven,
and disguised in purest ivory silks;
deplorable in your bloody conquest.

A Harlot’s Kiss Off

This was something crafted from anger and accusations. Nevertheless it is written, it is my own work, and I will post it here.

The venom with which you coat your arrows,
only serves to corrode their steel points.
You fire from your craven oak bow,
only for me to feel not one thing at all.
You’ve lost what once consumed your time;
you’ve nothing left to silence the singing seconds,
so you turn to your simmering acid,
well I’m gonna turn to a quivering lip.
You’re not a dove with the olive branch,
you’re more a vulture cloaked in white satin.
Whilst I am coaxing the roses to bloom,
my artifice delivers me ascendancy.
As you give oath to your inquisition,
your indolence hands you to dependency.

Asphodel Meadows

I used the concept of part of the Ancient Greek Underworld as a metaphor to describe my own feelings at the time. Those who had lived unexceptional lives, were believed to be sent to the ‘Asphodel Meadows’ – a rather banal place. I saw this as somewhat comparable to my own life. I was asking myself, ‘what was I doing?’ I couldn’t think of anything exceptional that I had done, or that I could possibly do.

I was delivered unto a place of grey.
All I could do was to sit on the dry grass
and reflect on what had made this my home.
It wasn’t by choice that I lived so ordinarily;
in the vale of years I remained uninspired.
No creation to my identity,
nothing synonymous to my name.
Not a dent was made
on the clay model of lifespan.
No handprints left from efforts to press down,
just the puddles of raining ink that I had spilled.
Through pleasantries, I found no ascension.
To be polite, is to be enveloped by time.
Becoming a grain of sand, one for the mound,
without a notion to change.
What I dreamt to express, the words refused to orchestrate.
instead, every meaning and feeling eluded me.
Now it’s too late,
for I am bound to a constant.
I harvest grain, only for it to rot from birth.
I walk under trees, but no leaves will fall.
I long to flow forgetfulness into my mouth,
and let Lethe, oblivion’s patron, rebirth my soul,
lest I linger here, burning in monochrome.
I preserved ambition into the afterlife.
But I’m trapped by stone peaks,
in this arid valley.
I dream of the Elysian;
the sunshine gold that I stretched too far for.
Only the notorious achieve the prize,
And the mediocre inherit a static land.
Surrounded by spectres that I do not identify with,
They mourn, and themselves become mist.
I don’t belong to the haze,
but it has me, and I dissolve into white smoke.
I become one among the dull trees,
swirling with the dust on the ground.
Even when it was Earthly air that I breathed,
I acted the role of the scenery.
Never finding the voiced half of my thoughts,
and always being swayed to a direction.
Like a river of opinion.I was a tiny stone,
being ground to salt by the louder pebbles,
and integrated into the scream.
I was shouted down.
The Elysian Fields are full of loud voices.

Sky Space

This was written at a time when I was lonely, single and not very confident in myself or my outward presentations in the slightest. So, except for single, I am still many of those things. But I don’t really see the ‘sky space’ as much of an issue anymore, given that I have no reason to care if anyone else sees me as suitable for a relationship anymore.

With a face obscured by clouds,

swirling around, distorting your features;

how can I know of your beauty?

Because, you sit above me.

I can’t help but imagine,

you peering downwards to see me.

—-

Your eyes sit amongst the Gods,

on level with their mountain top.

Were you born of their craftsmen?

A design so unreachable divine,

by I, on my seat of mortality.

—-

A cygnet is not yet a swan,

but my feathers will remain greyed.

Your porcelain white helps you fly,

lifts you away from my sight,

where I couldn’t hope to reach you.

—-

I can’t help but worry about the roses,

who use their cunningly coaxing petals,

in a game of teasing for the daisies.

Tell me; are you thorned?

Where does this worry stem?

—-

Your pedestal rises higher than I couldgrasp,

for one who I will hope,

would lay on the low earth with me.

Rational Endsequence

This poem is completely about my own personality and how I operate under stressful conditions. This was directly derived from one of my former boyfriends who would sometimes raise his voice angrily to me at very menial things, which caused me to retreat into a shell and become somewhat icy. I’ve noticed that I’m a colder and more closed off person, following the relationship, and I can’t help but think that it is something of a consequence of that.

One click;

activate function word.

Initiate shut down

and raise the defences

to the heart.

One word

to send ice crystals through my veins.

—-

I see only sequences,

the order of the letters;

intricately.

I examine your meaning,

conveyed through code.

I have a system to de-crypt,

deciphering your content.

—-

It’s all black and white.

Process the admissions

and nothing more.

Receptive to the immediate;

sight and not sense.

A hidden agenda

discarded during translation.

—-

A smokescreen is cast

between a symbol formation

and the meaning within.

Transmit what you say

and say what you mean.

An underground thought

will be buried alive

and starved of oxygen.

—-

I work my sequences

into a solution.

Serving into their court;

a game of pass and return.

Respond to what I see,

not what I think.

—-

Process the letters

and gauge the next attack.

Use what you receive

to keep the momentum.

Never forget to

rationalise.

Emotion is anathema.

Lock on;

obliterate.

—-

The battlefield is clear.

On A Voyage

It’s so rare that I am actually lighthearted when writing poetry. I’m guessing this is because topics that befit lighthearted writing are also harder to really be excited or inspired by. But then thinking, this topic technically carries a very significant measure of gravity, it also just brings a lot of happiness, so why not write in a jovial manner?

I’m living with a curious mind,

fuelled by the fact that you are mine.

Intrigue in the world of you and I,

to be discovered within time.

—-

Baby this is our era,

and it’s still very new.

We’ve got so much to learn

in the future of me and you.

Like those that swim the ocean,

there’s so much more depth.

Honey, you’ve seen a little,

now come and see the rest!

—-

I’m living with a curious mind,

fuelled by the fact that you are mine.

Intrigue in the world of you and I,

to be discovered within time.

We are on a voyage, oh, you and I.

—-

We’ve got a vast sea to sail,

and love will be our boat.

If you hold on to my hand,

you and I shall float.

When we’re done in the water,

the sky shall be our ground.

Propelling us through the blue,

and flying through the clouds.

—-

I’m living with a curious mind,

fuelled by the fact that you are mine.

Intrigue in the world of you and I,

to be discovered within time.

We are on a voyage, oh, you and I.

On a journey til’ the end of time.

—-

I’d walk barefoot on desert sands,

if it meant I could hold your hand.

I’d swim the icy seas,

directed by the breeze,

if I’d wash ashore,

somewhere near to you.