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 prey, it knows him well:
he cannot hide from wind
nor rain
nor hell
Image credit : © Agsandrew | Dreamstime.com – Inner Life of Dream
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 ghosts cold as death, and colder still broken by the driving wind frozen lake's inconstancy ghosts that claim me for their own 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
(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 now
I own you
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
(4-9-2014)
I want to be your friend, she said
Just tell me where you live
I can’t, I’m married, stay away
That’s all I have to give
I think you want me too, she said
Now tell me who you are
I won’t, this has gone far enough
In fact, it’s gone too far
Your old prose gave a lot of clues
I knew I would know how
To track you down to where you live
I’m watching you right now
I want to be your friend, she screamed
I woke up in a sweat
Thankful feeble WordPress poets
Don’t have stalkers
Yet
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
