Replication, O photon.
Atmosphere. Molecules.
Phase, like seasons. Here, then gone.
Tools, tremors, toadstools.
Occipital ridge, troll, bridge.
Billy goat, thy horn.
Pestilence, thy name is midge.
Freighter, fain, forlorn.
Lightning bolt, fruit of the gods.
Eat one and become.
Mycelial, goldenrod?
Mushroom, just stay mum.
Sign of salvation, sea-bass?
Shark, set eyes on same.
Liquid legend, O my lass?
Sure. I'm glad you came.
Tympani, crush. Firefly, flee.
Knock thrice, then flit, thrush.
O behemoth, swim thy sea?
Death, you've had a brush.
Enormous or gigantic?
Titan, which to choose?
Oil on surface, stiff or slick?
Flickering fate, fast fuse.
Race, a trace of turkey wild.
In the corn, my child.
Charnel house floor, stains a-tiled?
Ululate, red riled.
Racket, informed packet?
Data, grow in trees.
Weather, wail. Jail, jacket.
Pain, poisonous to please.
Never again to know fresh air,
Combing worms from my matted hair.
No one remains who’d ever care —
Tied to my grave, this lonesome baire.
I must escape the sun’s harsh glare,
Tread carefully down crumbling stair,
Descend into my crypt just there,
Where I sit alone in dark despair.
Upon my ancient worm-eaten chair,
Inside my vaulted charnel house lair,
Such a sad and accursed affair —
Never to rest, always aware.
This kind of death is so unfair:
No converse, no song, no whispered prayer.
A thousand lifetimes in disrepair,
Unattended, solus, solitaire.
Harshest sentence beyond compare,
Caught in this endless undeath snare.
Naught to do but eternity stare —
And comb the damn worms from my hair.
You left. I’m not full of anything but nothingness.
It’s an interesting feeling, nothingness. It hurts so badly you’d think something was there. But when I check, it’s empty. There’s nothing there.
I wept. My eyes burn like a thousand blazing suns, full of dust and grit that scrapes away my sclera until tears of blood drip red tracks down my cheeks.
There was something there.
No words. They erased my poetry the day you left. The words are forgotten and tasteless on my tongue. I lit a candle and seared my flesh to burn away any trace of myself, like a thousand blades tracing red lines into my skin. Was something here?
No songs. You took my voice with you beyond the veil of human sight. The phantom whispers will forever echo into the speechless abyss of my mind. Feeble scratches into my frail human papyrus, a promise never to be fulfilled. Were you ever here?
I’m empty. An emptiness so full of hate and pain and grief that I will never again be filled. It soaked into the lining of my chest cavity until every breath I take is drowning, seeped in sorrowing despair. The vivid imagery of a charnel house in human flesh. Death is here.
a clock strikes twelve - -
the old charnel house door
creaks open
for Tracie’s Scary Ku contest
There high on an outcrop of sun bleached rock
A skull and bone house please no feign of shock
Resting a place following the charnel house of life
Layered guests welcomed from past time be it husband or wife
No names all lost even an alias a Smith or Jones
Searching long enough I am sure to find my bones
Night Terror.
You need no introduction.
Into my slumber,
With skulking cats eyes.
Now,
You build a charnel house.
Bricks and mortor, sinister.
Laying claim to my dreams.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I suffered terribly with night terrors at such a young age.
I feel they dictated my life for quite some time.
This is one of my more personal poems.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Personification; please?
I dont know if there is currently a contest for personification poetry.
If not, I would love to see one set up.
Unfortunatly, i feel i do not have the capacity to run one myself... yet.
Thank you for taking the time to read my post, Jamie.
(P.S. I am brand new to soup, as you most likely can tell.)
The Age of Man
Is but a brief, abbreviated span
Of seconds ticking in a moment’s course.
Infinity: the final source
Is like a charnel house, with cypress tree
And yew and myrtle, growing in the graves of Space,
Where decomposes Time’s own face.
Fire at the edge of the world.
Eyes deep within the shoreless forest sea,
Witnesses of most ancient ways
Watch smoke rising from the approaching front
Of treeless, naked land
Stripped bare by blind ambition,
Quietly await the end.
Five thousand acres a day
The last great garden drifts into the skies
To join the circling storms that once nourished it.
The fires lick and crawl their way
Into its green heart.
Fire is eating the soul of the world
Reducing the face of its childhood to ash;
- Behold here the sorrow of Eden's last relic
Becoming the charnel-house of Creation.
words are not well today; starched
you ate them up like bread
in a box they slowly spoiled; parched
charnel house for the unsavory dead.
they’ve pickled long in quiet brine
meaning chokes; forms bind
brackish style and sly shade of lime
but not the wit once thought entwined
Yesterday, words were silkworms
crawling naked through town
Godiva white - stiff, gluey germs
but now
words have become unsettled and vague
no longer stuck like papier mache
but strewn out in bodies of an undying plague
most beautiful array
The words are not well today.
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