The pall of gloom hovers over the sea of sorrow,
surges in turmoil tempest to my mental meadow,
melts to make the stream of tears to flow covert
as “the clouds spill a thousand secrets”.
The mordant brine of dissolved distress,
shaped in tear drops the eyelashes design,
slowly slides down my deserted visage vale
with the pent-up pile of dream debris.
Torrent of tears congealed in cold dereliction
carries the shriveled shards of broken heart,
rushes to reach the warmth of your yearning arms,
and become “love-drunk on desire”.
The flames of inferno of your lingering longing
blaze the enshrined essence of my frigid life,
“melt my tears into your sweet fire”;
the mesmeric mist creates the miasma of memory.
A simple leaf unfurled himself one spring
His fledgling face beholding sun-kissed sky
Where each cloud traced a new imagining
And bore aloft his dreams to one day fly
In time he left behind such childish ways
And focused on his purpose to the tree
To harvest and consume his brightest days
And so impress the jade-clad bourgeoisie
With time he found his verdant color fade
As shriveled lines subverted youthful cast
And even dreams of flight now felt betrayed
By seeing how that day would be his last
I think about this leaf and reminisce
For what am I but such a leaf as this
8/1/2026
I put my arms around you, your heart melts into mine;
the borders of your anguish I can easily define.
There is no need for language explaining agony,
I perceive a griever’s heartache in black telepathy.
Your landscape is familiar, I know one similar
in the trackless barren places, in the lonely city spaces
where people neither know nor care.
I gleaned shriveled fruit from withered vines,
crushed, distilled, and drank the acrid wine.
I climbed the treeless summit, trekked the tundra of despair,
heard the mountain winds dark harmony
to a mourning mother’s keening prayer.
I know because my heart has heard
within its depths your soundless words.
Copyright, July 11, 2026
Hop a train
steam far away
from the zig jagged insane.
Dream far, far away from the media blitz
the mass hysteria
that devilish jab
the mask hysteria
of pure delirium.
billions to be raked in
from
the jab
the kits
the masks
the disinfectants
one-way hospital stays.
Gates
wants to jab us to death
force us to eat his shriveled meat
In so many words, he wants to cull the herd.
Gates
is blotting out the sun
thinning our bones
slowly turning us to dust.
Hells Gates
has stage 4 God complex
but God never sported an STD.
Hop a train to a faraway place.
Stepping away from the insane.
Rubbing elbows with the homeless and hobo.
AT least they're real.
Gather and recalibrate a lost spirit.
Meditate, go deep underground.
Into the twin mirror of self and selfless.
Slide away from their plastic charms.
Sliding away from all of them.
Becoming like an earthworm.
Too long of bath
fingers shriveled like raisins
scary movie prop
Swivel
and Sparkle
and Splinter
passion will bear
Aghast
over serrated
STARSCAPES
blistering past
the past
AGONY
Scalds and
Stumbles
Destiny
flings
AJAR
seething
delirious
rumble
of a dismembered
S T A R -
Flushed in a Ream of Fire -
Redolent and
Untrue -
scorching the sky
ENTIRE
over remains of
YOU -
over charades of splendor -
over cascades of pain -
over a long-lost
Laughter
desolate and insane -
over volition
SHATTERED
into a silent scream -
over intention
SCATTERED
into a field
of seem -
over a lifeforce
blended
with a malignant lie
over a soul
upended
in an obverse reply -
Over my clutching wristbones -
over your lips of dew -
over two Haunted Heartforms
Blended and
Torn Anew - -
Vanishing passion
Clambered
Shriveled like drops
of doom
and Essence remained
Dismembered
In the Blistering light
of the moon.
EUPHORIC EPITHET
disarrayed sands
derive dislodged
from
timeless terrain
settle bemused
on
stratified shelf
of
languid life
disorganized
in
dismantled moments
of
petrified perturbation
trustworthy truth
on
ruffled ripples
of
disordered discontent
oscillates
on
bewildered efflux
of
delinquent dismay
as
metamorphosed elation
reveals tousled
real pretense
of
traumatic transmutation
of
disquiet mind
drowning disheveled
in
distraught nothingness
with
splintered leitmotif
of
embedded emotion
in
sensual sandcastles
on
shriveled shore
of
eroded yearning
where
psyche rises
shape-shifted
to
covert flute
of
passion symphony
plays music
of
ecstatic self
entranced
as
convivial concerto
resonates
the last refrain
of
melodic memory
as
transcendent essence
of
euphoric epithet
One hour of life.
That's all he had,
The only thing the world gave him,
The only thing he knew.
That boy,
innocent, beautiful and clueless
Unwelcomed by the world,
Bombarded with hatred and pain,
Almost as if he absorbed the world's resentment,
But why?…
Why must He do this?…
Why must he bear our mistakes-
Our sins?
One hour,
Each tick
Robbed the boy of his life,
I watched it pass
I saw it wither,
Shriveled.
Despite that fact
the boy smiled-
It wasn’t childlike,
But one that knew more than I,
I felt as if I were a kid.
Although sadness overcame me,
I too smiled,
I felt warm,
safe—
reassured-
Reassured that everything was okay.
His life,
His life, although it was depressing-
His life was beautiful,
It felt longer than just one hour,
It was more than just his time,
It felt as if his life was larger,
His life had meaning,
Despite his small sentence,
I was relieved,
In his death,
selfishly—
I felt peace.
parched buds
in
shriveled sapling
dismally desolate
bloom dreams
of
desiccated dunes
where
aureate sun
masks mirage
chased elusively
by
scorched life
to
opalescent oasis
but
ending up
in
staking recess
of
capricious illusion
where
dreams demolish
in
deranged debris
of
castle of cards
collapsing confounded
in
desert sands
of
destiny adrift
rootless vagabond
wanders in wasteland
of
wrecked aspiration
mentally morphs
subtly shapeshifts
to
clandestinely contour
a lone player
of
puppet recital
showcasing artistically
panorama of life
articulately abstract
performed to perfection
to
delusive dictum
of
stringed freedom
enjoyed intangibly
in
artificial act
persuasively axiomatic
of
lingering life
perfected within
psychic sanctum
of
patience instilled
by
possessed passion
to
perform entranced
in sonata
of
serenading soul
Spring`s First Dew
Spring’s first dew on petals
Kissing gently cheeks and lips,
Shining gem of crystal hue,
Sparks life in shriveled beauties.
He abides within the seeping creaks
Of this my cold, dust-ridden chamber –
Upon whom profligacy wears itself
In garments silken unto ruggedness,
Palpable against my holy essence.
He speaks unto me dreams of romance,
Whereupon my rotting soul decays
Amidst the fruitless trees of my youth,
Whose twisted branches melt the wax
Of the fading sun.
He shrieks in melancholic pleasure,
And the shriveled leaves of autumn
Crumble beneath his whims, no longer
Breathing upon my soiled demesne.
Written: December 23, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
*************
Castle Ravenloft looms—
a janiform crown of storm-light and stone.
Its spires protrude as if imploring
a cold, unanswering nimbus.
Below, Barovia lies—
a shabby village where cowslips squirm,
and daybreak, under mists,
offers only a brief farewell.
This land’s spirit is sacred suffering.
Hope and death entwine in chiaroscuro.
Symbiosis curdles into a curse,
and the living move with shadows
as though born to them.
Ubiquitous, gelid mists
embed xenogenesis in every breath,
Their jagged deceit conning the brave and mulish.
Dark, shriveled streets of Barovia—
laden with pale wisteria—
echo with inane, forgotten glee,
an odor of treacle, revulsion, and lost joy.
On the edge between night and terror,
a winsome child may hum a chorus—
a fleeting overlap of sorrow and mercy.
But the mists return, hostile and persistent;
after tasting music, street, and soul,
only the castle remains—
a riddle whispered against
a cloudscape that refuses to rise.
WHO SHE IS
AND WHO SHE WANTS TO BE
VASTLY DIFFERENT
AS LAND AND SEA
SHRIVELED HOPES
WRINKLED DREAMS
CRUSHED WITH THE WEIGHT
OF THINGS UNSEEN
THE PAIN, THE GRUDGE
THE BLOODY SCARS
HIDES BEHIND
THE MASK THUS FAR
NOBODY SEES
DO THEY EVEN CARE
WHO SHE WAS
WHO SHE LOVED
GONE WITH THE WAVES
OF YESTERDAYS SORROW
BEGGING,CRYING, TRYING
TO MAKE A RETURN
SOME SWEET MORROW
UNTIL THEN
SHE SITS IN SILENCE
SHE COPES, SHE DWELLS
JUST AS THE OLD PENNIES
IN THE BOTTOM OF THE WELL
The shattered remains of what I once had,
The hollow dreams still quite tall,
My mind of chaos driving me mad,
All behind a huge, transparent wall.
I hung my head low, slumped down.
I searched aimlessly in the darkness.
A picture lay there; on my face a frown,
But what was left of them all, they called it silence.
I caressed the picture,
My thoughts haywire,
The world is sinister,
Burning me up like fire.
Who am I? A meek peasant.
Knew no more than hardened violence,
A burdened past, a tortured present,
And what lay beyond, they called it silence.
Sorrow gripped me on the inside,
Lifeless and shriveled from within,
Merely spectating the secrets, they still hide,
Hoping that once again I could begin.
Sacked of my people, my life,
All while hiding under a veil of pretense,
Blaming me for the start of a strife,
And what they didn't need, they called it silence.
I let it calm down,
The whirlwind in my mind.
The warmth and laughter, I had them drown,
No place for joy will I ever find.
I ripped the photograph, my elixir.
The fire crackled in the distance,
All gone, I was forced to surrender,
And all that was mine, they called it silence.
change is not stubborn
as is a long-shriveled hand~
c’est la vie bygone
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