it knows him and it comes for only him – the storm of all he knows and fears – the heartless cognizant, to despotize the soul the skies are moving waves: and full of the intent to maim the poor novitiate — and leave him homeless, wand’ring in the dark the storm, it knows its … Continue reading "the sentient storm"
Wood in knots Would it not? Words I’m tired of wasting By the bayou Bored and bumbling Saline waft I’m tasting Foot steps heavy In the mud Down the shoreline Trudging For in judgment I’ve been walking Where to? There’s No judging
driven through the broken glass broken by the driving wind ghosts are standing by the lake broken by the driving wind simulacrum, memory memories of what's to come ghosts that shiver by the lake memories of what's to come shielded purpose, veiled intent cold as death, and colder still ghosts of time in times of … Continue reading "simulacrum, memory"
In rage the feminine ideal The butterfly that melts at touch The now-offending precedent Who’s overlong and overmuch The living nightmare in its time The riders on the cormorant The sepulcher that houses fear And cries for help Reverberant Image credit : © Agsandrew | Dreamstime.com – Butterfly Dreams
Your nightmares might have zombies Or falling, floods or fire; But mine have swarms of locusts Across the span entire Of everywhere I look and also Everywhere I run; The nameless, faceless carnage Of billions Against One
(Originally published April, 2014. – Owen) Nightmare crawling City sprawling Fires rage While baby’s bawling Forearm choking Engines smoking Each new page Old vile invoking Pedants hector Every sector Drink the bane Of poison nectar Shape your thinking Fetid, stinking Inhumane All prospect sinking I’ve outgrown you Now I’ve shown you You met me And … Continue reading "Nightmare: The Code of Aglaec"
behold: the dream that we had once that every man would be a king, and every woman, royal, back when innocence was still a thing among adults – it isn’t now; the purple chrome is full of lead from bullets sprayed by common folk who live to see each other dead
I want to be your friend, she said...
There are those nights Sierra screams In endless terror calling; A hundred gray and ghostly hands Reach out as she is falling But she would glide away in hope If last hope had not foundered: The memory she can’t permit Still drags her ever Downward