Some say the husband has been unfaithful.
Being in her profile pic won't change anything.
The crown on her head's already withering.
She was never really her husband's queen.
Disclaimer: This poem is about the general population of mean girls with their spouses in their profile photos, who, for whatever reason, subconsciously feel a need to prove how successful and stable their marriage is. No offense is actually intended. If you find yourself feeling triggered, step back, take a deep breath, and exhale. Do not give words on a screen so much power over your mind.
The moon slides silent on the dew-swept field,
My hand upon the curved and cunning blade,
Its weight both foreign and familiar here—
The long crescent, gentle as a cradle’s arc,
Yet sharp as memory’s unforgiving edge.
I move through wheat as if I part my hair,
Each golden stalk a strand beneath my palm.
The swish and sigh, a rhythm in my hips,
A knowledge passed from wrist to wrist, unseen,
A legacy in muscle, bone, and skin.
They say the scythe is instrument of end,
A harbinger of silence, fall, and dusk—
Yet in my fingers, it becomes a song,
A spindle, spinning daylight into bread,
A lullaby for seeds that sleep below.
The field is wide, horizon swept with hope;
The blade and I, together, carve our path.
I am both steward, sentinel, and stone,
A presence in the morning’s quiet hush,
Reaping, not as death, but as a mother would—
Gatherer of what’s grown and what will be.
Death walks slowly down the street
with the hood pulled way down low
ain't no sound no not even his feet
his hourglass ready to go
are you ready hey are you ready for this
are you sitting on the edge of your seat
out of the doorway the soul-scythe rips
the end prepare to meet yeah
'bomp' 'bomp' 'bomp'
another goes to the dogs
'bomp' 'bomp' 'bomp'
another falls off his log
and another one gone and another one gone
another one down the bogs
hey I'm gonna get you too
another one pops his clogs
With apologies to Freddie Mercury (1946 – 1991) & Queen
If ghosts are real, what have we done?
The skeleton inside of me, taste like blood
The shadows are speaking to me, like stones in my pockets
Told you about my birthday, but you forgot about it
In a city of angels, I smell the bonfire smoke
Creatures in the woods, wear a dark green cloak
Sliced like crops in a field, with a scythe
More sour than, my lemon juice lies
This distorted love, is a lie in the dark
My midnight conversations, are like Medusas touch
Every piece of my soul, is against my better judgment
If I give you my heart, please don’t lose it
Scythe
On two, only you
And the extravaganza
Part implore, wicked lore
Every color, to originate
Or is it designation
Peach to the rot, keys to the lot
Untying celestial guesses
In the mark of motion horror
Some vein in the bull of lurch
To a mother in the insect sky
Warrant to the chains
Such one the pot to the island of a rib
And met the bearing of scorn
Who is magistrate of pointed skill
Dreams calling to the rise of bones
And corners are hardest to clean
A candle is lit in a small dark cave,
Upon these walls shadows in EDM rave,
Flickering flame kiss cool, damp ambience,
Small Sparks fly up igniting silhouette.
Laughter, sinful pleasure in danger grave,
Misplaced desires, in handcuffs and enslave,
Whispers deafening, instantaneous,
Extorted dancers to owe reaper’s grim debt.
These foolish shadows thinking they are brave,
Little is known in darkness as a slave,
Engulfed within candle lit dalliance,
Think he could not see, dangerous roulette.
Unholy scythe swings, it is time to shave,
Candle flame smolders, they all misbehave,
Death is the inevitable transience,
Caught under their trance unknown t’was a threat.
My somber moments, no one will ever know
They're not open images, I choose to show
This is my fight to win or lose blow by blow
No one else planted these seeds row by row
Many claimed to be in my corner but turned to go
They brought me their scythe, I reap what I sow
Give them no quarter, nor do they earn quid pro quo
At last, I'm free no one left worth my trusting to bestow
Vaults are all empty to thine last breath, none left to owe
Those that shove past you, glare and scatter,
That drive the scares, in your wits and slither,
That smile and stare, at things you did master,
And then them that you will, lose and move,
Or through thicks, care for and pursue.
The bearers of the whips of black scythes,
Folded in turbulent evils of shaded blythes,
That wait in desires of you, to swift in myths,
And then bear of nothingness, the power of slices,
Unnerved by the struggles to free, from the swings and minces.
There are those that, in swears vow and plead,
Please with, in steps synching walk on paths,
That they laid in thorns, that they enroute,
And awaits them, in rounds, on routes.
Maintain the binds to them, in pomposity,
That you may, in silence, find prosperity,
In pretence, that with them, you are,
Swinged and minces from bites,
Of their evil, the scythe.
28/5/2022
Nobody listens to God anymore...
Even the pontiff has an ear of salt and stone.
Cherry-cheeked cherubs play frisbee with their halos.
The masses flaunt sinfulness like a cheap brooch.
As those four horsemen are surely approaching.
Our collective consciousness has crumbled into shadow.
Butterfly and finch song crushed into powder.
Nobody listens to God anymore~
They've made the creator into a comedic cliché.
Placed the nose of a clown on his pristine face.
With a sweep of graffiti sweet Mother Nature defiled. defaced.
Nobody listens to God anymore...
Until the scythe shuts Saint Peter's door.
I wear a black cloak with hourglass in hand
Waiting for the last grain of sand to land
And once it does I will collect the soul
To lead it near the Chief of Heaven's goal.
I'm the last to see your human body
Before death arrives in your life's lobby;
I hold you as you take your final breath
Like long ago the two of us had met.
I'll walk with you so you won't be alone
You suffered more than enough on your own.
I'll guide you to a place you will be loved
Where time is eternal with God above.
When it's your time to die I'm the keeper-
I'll come for you my name is Grim Reaper.
I finally let my breath out, relieved that the scythe had come and passed, only to turn away and fall down the flight of stairs.
On the days the wind does blow
life gets caught up in how things should go
and winds gather up the harvest from the field to tow
to blow up harvest in good flight it may freely flow
but what of those who never know
and never feel the warm winds of autumn blow
and the scythes will never come home
and all hope of good harvest is then
forever gone
DEATH NOT BY SCYTHE
In fly nightmares a ghoulish figure stands
Not with a scythe but a rolled-up newspaper in hand
After a frenetic existence of daily work dizzy
With visits to trash dumps on schedules busy
Some big guy comes near with eyes all a-glint
And you end your days covered with newsprint
Uncle Reno was killed by the New York Herald Tribune
Old Kisso, the guy next door, by the Vancouver Sun
Used to be a slow end for many of us guys,
Six feet glued tight. Now a sudden sticky end for flies.
Life ends not with a bang or a whimper
But with a rolled-up newspaper
Reared and disciplined
But never in immortality
Confined to repetition
Wading through banality
Longing for an aura of comfort and peace
I run from the reaper, as if I could escape that beast
She stalks me adroitly
I wait for her steel
My sweat is profuse
My soul I can feel
Warm is her touch
Gentle her demeanor
Loving her embrace,
A beauty if you have seen her
Before I could contemplate
Even the most logical thought
She marked me on her list
And of me, she never forgot
Oh reaper, come take me away
Vanquish the weak, but with you I wish to stay
Feeling so gelid without your caress
You whisper softly, "Come my child and lean on my chest"
I follow blindly for your voice is my nepenthe
Never could I expect such beauty to be so deathly
My soul I give to you and to you alone
Even the mightiest of kings, will one day give you his throne
My lady, come hither and remove my strife
I pray to you softly
Comfort me with your scythe
A candle to light
A vigil to reminisce
Those that have fallen short...or so they think
A hand to hold those that seek closure
A sweaty palm to relax anxiety
Breathing in expectations of how we know the world sees us
Breathing out how it never does
I stood beside my brother who was of a different background
I whipered in his ear " family "
He glared at me and inspected my color
Smiled reassuringly and said " My sisiter, where have you been?''
I told him Of my trip around the river
How I baptized the contradictions
Cleansed them of their remorse
It was what brought me to you
The lady in front of me dropped her bomb
And said" No more blood, for the color itself is too loud"
She asked me where I had been
I told her " To the PeaceMaker, who let me hold his keys
it will open all those sealed doors
That we bothered not to jiggle the handle, ever seeing that it be unlocked"
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