Lento is the rhythm our hearts once beat.
Mementos we idealized from the past.
Tempos orchestrate our crushing defeat
Crescendos into what could never last.
Of course, we loved the blessed symphony
Endorsed sacred songs mutually shared.
Divorce brought along its cacophony
Forced a melody of chaos unrepaired.
Judges and lawyers pulling wicked strings
Trudges to the beat of our tragic age.
Grudges hammering the half-notes that sting
Besmudges our reputations with rage.
We shall forever cherish the sweet lento.
The easy swing of love so compliant.
Sheet music must come to an end though.
Be in separate beds lone and silent.
A weapon of hope, she
stands in the breach,
firing her deadly
cannons of calamity
toward the darkness.
Screams pierce the
inky void, rising to
crescendos before
subsiding to whimpers
and finally, silence.
Still the weapon of hope,
she rises, once again
firing her deadly cannons
while behind her they live
free while she stands.
In crescendos and surges of light,
Beneath the somber, crimson sky,
Beyond the shadow's line,
He stretched his wings in haste
He found and swept an angels heart;
They shine and struck embrace
And onward flew the angels,
By crimson flame and flash
We simply stood and stared a while,
And heard the trumpets blast.
We saw it singed and scorched in light
And in the glow of golden blaze,
The past cannot declined.
No meaning slips away.
A love designed to last the years,
Will not be torn or taken,
A mother’s boy united,
A time for celebration.
The whooshing of threadbare curtains cuts through deadening silence,
while shadows on the wall toy with a hermit's sanity.
The graze of unseen, jagged fingernails scrapes against sweaty flesh,
injecting poison into subcutaneous tissue,
unwieldily setting the stage.
A heaviness of humid, stale air presses down on compressed lungs,
as maniacal laughter bounces off cracked ceilings.
Buzzing flies circle, swooping down
just to taunt—then vaporize into nothingness.
Muttering voices cling to the inside of a failing cranium,
overtaking a discarded soul, slowly stripping away morality.
Irises blacken, then return to sapphire, before blackening again.
Sitting, rocking back and forth with arms wrapped around legs,
speaking in tongues—
the transformation has begun.
A shattered will; possession seems inevitable.
Fighting feels increasingly hollow.
The smothering venom accelerates.
Chattering crescendos
until your body becomes complete chaos,
and what's left of your soul is trapped within a cage,
locked deep inside the pits of demonic despair.
I'm kyanite-kissed venom ~
above castles
of capitalised cryptics ~
choreographing
l i f e
in crescendos
of constellations...
For Sara Jama's contest "Emotional Shrapnel"
05/10/2025
she appears spontaneously
courtesy asunder
an uninvited visitor
behind her a seeping of rust at the gates
an artist with barren hands
splashing scarlet all over the hessian
a lurid migration, primordial as fossils,
sketched by Selene’s soft summoning
into the earth’s belly,
with feeble niggles,
surging to tremor crescendos
abrading,
grinding,
scraping
in the moulded wisdom of the womb
where a design is deferred
a cradle lies still….
Turning over in a ruffled bed,
stark red numbers sear 4 a.m. into bloodshot corneas.
Nothing but darkness creeps through threadbare curtains, frozen in place.
A desolate silence becomes deafening, as birdsong no longer crescendos—
what would have been the breaking of dawn.
It's been six years now since our brightest star was thrown out of orbit,
exposing the frozen side of the sun.
No longer does our planet experience the warmth of its radiation,
nor the glow of its solar flares.
Within a fraction of a second, humanity was plunged into an everlasting night.
Temperatures plummeted; mass hysteria was at its peak.
Crops perished within hours to days,
as the new icy tundra eclipsed once-thriving farmlands.
The birth of a perpetual Ice Age was at hand.
Power grids crystallized and snapped.
Cities crumbled; small towns were blotted out,
disappearing off the map, never to be seen again.
Death's gelid hand spared but a few souls—
holed up in a scientific research bunker in the Arctic.
We are but the unlucky few who get to “live” in this glacial purgatory,
wandering aimlessly forevermore.
Stars are flashing jewels of light
worn by angels, dripping sparkles
that hover within nights’ indigo skies.
Each stellar star is a heavenly diamond
carefully cut and crafted by the hand of God
cradled and held, as unique as a fingerprint
marking the lines of space and time.
Creator God set the stars in their courses
He knows each one by name
a shooting star rises, flares and bursts
it crescendos like fleeting fireworks
another star is set to become a part
of an interstellar constellation.
Every star is orchestrated to appear
within its own designated stanza
whether in a bright, intense chorus
or a quiet, wistful solo
each star has its unique pattern
and each star is a radiant reflection
of the majestic glory of God.
Wandering, searching for the wind
An empty vessel, lost adrift.
Steering toward a forgotten shore,
To a place that deals only in absolutes,
Where no storm shall cloud our path.
When we wake from the slumber of darkest night
There is glory in the redemption of dawn
Rising anew to embark on a sacred descent,
As the day crescendos in majestic hues,
Hypnotic, dissolving into the horizon
I write to you from inside an empty skull
because Wednesday can be hollow and bony
as we all may well know.
I am a man of great hope,
not unlike those earlier alchemists
with their gathered elements about them,
their cauldrons and scales,
their mystic science brewing
into crescendos of disappointment,
yet always working toward
a transmutation to the gold
of one more legendary day.
I must go now for the sun is setting
and in this hollow bone
a bird in a golden tree sings of
a sun that rises only to set.
It sings also of a mythical land,
where seven lesser deities'
number the hours on a faceless dial,
an infernal device
that measures the days
between the beginning and the end,
as if Thursday were but a dream
yet to be begun or imagined.
Hear our voice
From the east, west, south, and north
Hear our independence
This July Fourth
Like flowers in bloom
In the night
See the chandeliers
Hang in the sky
With crescendos and
Reds, blues and whites
Explosions and commotion
In the battle lights
In the bomb blasts and bombast
Crimsons, umbers and beige
Like the dawn’s breaking light
Mauves, cobalts and jades
All the high-lights and sky-lights
Caught by the American’s eye
It's In the fodder of the diviner’s rod
In the wizardry of July
While crimson dawn orchestrated the sky,
Birds spread sweet notes at morning breeze’s rides;
As sunrise calmly croons with smile on high,
Rays kiss us tenderly with warmest glides.
Clouds tunes magically in peaceful tones,
Tree branches smooch the light in windpipe song;
Mountains and hills stand tall in rhythmic thrones,
As garden flowers sway with leaves along.
Dew drops mingle with strings of golden shafts,
Buzzing crowd preludes its rise in towns;
Chats and laughter are crescendos of wafts,
Sun’s sonata plays for our graces’ crowns.
Rejoice with daily sunrise symphony,
To make our day light, stress free and happy.
Zenith swirls of black rose petals,
burst into a flock of circling crows,
descending ash and rain on my frozen form.
Viscera and scarlet pools flash,
feet running of a child,
car screeching tires with broken glass.
Piano motif grave into a tilt,
fingers dancing like butterflies,
levees welting over the brim crimson,
down the side of the dam,
Moon alabaster dust suspended,
upside down pyramid spins ever so swiftly,
I wish to go inside this burgundy sepulcher.
Ferryman take the bribe from the crypt keeper,
under the veil of the cloak in black,
piano crescendos with a cello in orchestra.
Now I float amongst the wraiths,
nevermore.
Golden silence here in crepuscule,
wonder if that sun ray in the distance,
is meant for me,
a telephone ring.
Teardrop a shudder in a large mirror reflecting,
zeal cherry blossoms in its grasp.
Lilith is the queen of darkness,
caution tape blueberries and cherries,
a moth that never emerged from larva.
Skulls pile up at the cemetery,
husk buried separate on the moon,
an ethereal tether to the void.
To live a long life is to die alone.
Too many sailors who have lived to tell,
Her siren song permeates,
day by day it fell.
Luring in ships to crash,
break,
splinter on cliffs,
She masters ethereal crescendos,
opera riffs.
Each day leads boats astray,
the reel of the sea witch,
Nay terror,
her voice pitch rich is much more bewitch.
Bull-black boots
stamping
like beating skin-tight drums
steel capped
with arched hands
clanking castanets
with crimson coronations
like a goldfinch neck
A guitar's fevered fret
crescendos
a rite of spring
kicking dust from bloodied boots
stomps off the romany's yoke
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