A Boil on the Face of Life

Stains flesh black,

Seep and sweat,
tears and blood.

Proud of sin,

Scourged Earth,
rock and steel.

One to melt,
one to rust.

We don’t weep,
No one cries.

We don’t see,
our virus.

For we do
not belong.

A virus
purges all.

Justice come,
And served.

Virus dies,
planet cries.

Sorrow will
regrow all

Begin new,
without us.

Author notes

An attempt at a dactylic trimeter.

Anxiety V

Malevolence in disguise
crashes down onto me,
from where, I know not.
Splintered reels
of imagination
flicker and flash,
blinding reality.
An aged perspective
travels far to meet
my raped eyes,
for no more
do I wish to see.
Oh, how my eyes
lie to my brain.
How I wish it were
white to guise a
bitter truth,
but instead it is
black, guttural,
morose, false.
I continue to feed
the wolf of despair
and let it feast
on my most desperate
It demands
my unconditional
What shall I do?

Author notes

The fifth in my series of Anxiety poems. Check my poem list for the rest of the series!

Bring Back Summer

Bring me back to summer.
Sand grinding in-between my toes,
water dashing over my feet.
Sunshine glare shares the waves
of windy heat that graze my body.
Seeing the hazy mirage
in the distance where
there’s always an ocean
but never a beach.
Even a burn on the skin
brings nary a frown or scoff,
but a smile towards the Sun;
Such a friendly foe it is.
Swift dreams pass as
lofty clouds in a lofty day,
bearing peace as rays
painted across the sky.
I slowly shut my eyes,
soaking in the dream,
only to wake in the rain.

Chord, or Discord

A puzzling,
and to say the least,
quite confounding
is the chess match
between fate
and free will.

For either will
keep the other in
a perpetual
stalemate of wit
and consequential

Willpower alone
can bend fate
but cannot break
the hold it has on
our inevitable
causes and their
candid effects.

We speak of neither,
and neither do we
take granted the
roles each play
in our symphony,
or perhaps,
our cacophony.

All finitely
on how we
tighten the
fragile strings
that pluck the tune
of our lives.

Author notes

Philosophical comparison between fate and free will, the ultimate chess match.

Dante, Part II

Drain thy soul empty
Where thine have fallen
Under the banner of a
False God.

Repentance granted thus
Before commission given
A soldier of Holy grace,
Only 'twas fallacy.

Thou has taken blood wine
Imbibed with corruption
For the blood of the Son
Rest not within thee.

Reverence placed in Man
Whose claim to faith
Lost in heaven and thus
Fallen into Hell, times nine.

The three have spoken,
Restitution yet not pittance
Be paid for the pitiful,
Thy destined to burn.

Destiny or Fate

A river waxes and wanes like

the elegant phases of the moon,

ebbing and flowing with the

predestined passage of time.

If all seconds were photographs,

merely a glimpse of a moment

in the vastness of empty space,

has fate already captured the shot,

or do we hold the camera?

As we traverse the gushing waves

between the guiding banks

of the turbulent river bed,

this canoe of existence

resting gallantly above

the flowing water and tides,

there is the invisible line.

Lateral and linear

we postulate our presence,

in a fragile attempt

to preserve our prestige,

leaving a mark

to stand the test of time

that our bodies could never.

Subtly we bend the thread

that tugs the boat along

life’s grievous yet grandiose

pontification of humanity.

Eternal Flame

This wind blasts a chilled winter
like a cancerous wildfire.
A blanket that has not warmth
lies desperate and disparate
to halt all whom cross its path.

Misery loves company they say;
For the semblance of solitude
rests with the crystal pike,
as it drives deeper into
our vanquished veins.

Besting one's inner flame
through sheer subjugation
by this frigid fortitude;
In the tenacity of this
Seasonal squalor, we break.

Such as the struggle of
Night and Day must wane;
So shall Death find death,
the seasons become reticent,
and our fire eternal.

Forward Unto The Past

Striving for peace in one’s mind
while thriving in discord; a war
built upon the memories of past,
present, future, all at once within
a singular place, time and space.

What we see and what is seen;
differing as the light bends around
our inner stars, the heart that beats
with the rhythm of underlying myths
and fragmented dream states.

Normality and reality struggle to
survive as we plunge into our own
subconscious where known and
unknown exist and the fine line
between worlds cannot be seen.

Must we exist to simply persist
in the never-ending reverberation
that is the echo of our faded
footsteps, whilst to most our bones
have long been dead and buried.

For the distance of our stars
seemingly close, yet so far as
to portray this illusion of not
being alone, but in fact we are;
for what we see is long gone.

The Ghost of My Soul

She came on a ghost train,
filled with silent passengers
swathed in black and white,
though she was clad in color.

The train was expected
to arrive at the same time
each day, no deviation,
with empty, colorless souls.

Since the conductor never
had to check their tickets,
passengers did not differ,
she was missed, and she was.

Color began to seep through
her fine dress, flowing to
the aisle from which
she so elegantly strolled.

Each click and clack
of the stiletto heels
pulse artfully painted waves
through the then lifeless car.

The silently sleeping
passengers begin to stir
and awaken in awe
of her vibrant visage.

She delicately whispers to
the enamored conductor,
and he signals a track change,
to a place colorfully unexpected.

Hunting the Hunters

Fallen into fallacy;

the buried grove,

green with envy

gives not life to those

that would eat the fruit

of rotten ignorance.

Bigots flock like birds;

feathers adorned with

pitch-fork justice,

ablaze from dark pitch,

stemming from the rot

seeping from their souls.

Blue fire accosts

like a thief in the night

as the crows flight

snaked through the

heart of the gifted grove,

sapping the succulence.

Whisked away nightly,

from on high the Ignorant

weep whilst their world

and all light is snuffed out,

sacrificed in the death

of the Prey, no longer.

Author notes

A poem of pride to support all those who are subject to hate and bigotry simply for being who they are.

I'll Climb That Wall

Your glance, fluttering eyelashes,
Oblivious to my subtle peeking
Unique to my haughty charm and wit
Had seemingly no effect on you.
A casual and canned flirt would not see
Victory this day as I formulate a new plan.
Emanating, your perfume and
Minute waves of heat pulse from
Your neck, ever beckoning as I wander in
Hopeful lust, and you smile knowing how
Enamored and entrapped you have me.
Artful and skilled at your craft I cling to a
Rope, the last rope for me to scale the
Tremendous wall to your heart.

Author notes

This poem is for someone very special. There is also a hidden message, can you find it?

In This Dark Corner

Buried in the corner,
cobwebs strewn about
invisible to the unwitting fly,
lies the dead past.
The wood rot soaks into
the pungent air,
expelling the cancer
of the past’s echo.
A match won’t light.
The foul darkness
blocks all light like
the moon in a
solar eclipse.
The shadow from the
corona outlines the corner,
a raven appears;
And in an instant, gone.
It takes root again;
a disorienting jungle
of obsidian nightmares.
These livid eyes
dance at the scene
as they forge this
world of vivid fear.

Are we alone in the dark?

I Seek The Sky

I seek the sky;
the embrace of daylight,
swift brushstrokes of
colorless yet
colorful splendor
that break the clouds
and break my heart.

The dawn of an angel,
stealing each breath
from me, yet I give
it willingly and gaze
in awe of silent beauty.

The pace of life
slows as to witness
the bees no longer buzz.
Still is life and yet it is not.
The trees still rustle,
but not a sound is made.

A singular heartbeat,
that finite moment in time,
where everything
and nothing
makes sense.
Angel, bring me the dawn,
for I seek the sky.

Author notes

To someone special

The Legend of Ian Floodman

Here lies a careless man,
once, near twice, betrothed,
yet not to a befitting woman
but to a quite rambunctious
and hardly lauded idea.

This man, near the precipice
of a certain ignominious
existence, persisted to craft
the most extraordinary tale,
one of hailing acclaim!

A story there ever was;
'twould latch to the very soul
of his enamoured audience,
fastened in the stupor of
arrant and utter amazement.

His fortune of which sought
naught but unanimous
love and affection from
those whose scorn for him
were well admonished.

Alas, the pity of such
assembled wonderment
did none to pierce
the veil of his wretched
yet colorful game.

And though his brief
yet stupendous role
as the architect of a
rather beautiful legend,
an end must ever come.

Author notes

An epitaph about a man who made himself forgotten but created a legend that lived on.

For those of you that question what this is about, all characters and plots are pure fiction and have no basis in history or reality.

Like The Diamond

What would it take to be
like the diamond.
Ne’er a scratch
abound its boundless
and bold facets.

Peaking pressure to
perform perfection,
and we gaze only
at the light and not
the object.

To match the gleam
to that which comes
from our own eyes;
how narcissistic our
own marvels can be.

And we wear it with
such veiled impunity,
impeding our impurity,
as we despair
to be diamonds.

Moral Decomposition

It's a rather repugnant flame;
That which burns the soul,
breeding one's damnation.
Though we hasten
our repentance, this
mythical, surgical doom
burrows only upward.
Through ambiguous shades of
morality and blood,
the phantasmal rogue
and his inertial army
inevitably break through.
For a decrepit kingdom likely
houses decrepit walls;
A stain which is only
cleansed by soaking
back into the Earth.

Rogue Waves and Heavenly Tides

Lost in a rogue wave,
the ship rocks and
the panicked sailors
race to heel against
the tumultuous waves.

Like a cardinal star,
they invade from
all directions, hellbent
and feeding on the fear
of the frightened men.

There’s too many
of them yet not enough.
As they crash against
the strained wooden
planks, slowly rotting.

The saving grace
in the North Star
still visible amidst
the confusing clouds
it still sails true.

For the only hope
to survive slaughtering
onslaught is to focus
on the One,
to pray for guidance.

The supernatural
weather breaks and
a ray of light shines
on the Captain,
on his knees.

His eyes peer,
expecting heaven,
which he finds
though not through death
but from heavenly life.

The shallow waves
break against the
rolling wood as it
gently strides across
peaceful tides.

Author notes

Have you ever had a moment where a billion thoughts invade your mind and you can no longer hear yourself?

Your Heaven, My Hell

I remember,
That which I would call safe.
That which slows the pace
of my heart and brings
my mind a semblance
of solitude.

This place,
far from the reaches
and throws of passing
time; the waves and tides
instead form a gently
breezing whisper.

Waking in
ignorant silence,
vocal contentions
of past and present
fill my thoughts,
which thought is mine?

where I became that
which created
this darkness,
and fell from
unholy grace;

where I lay,
and lie,
and inevitably die,
I float along the
eternal breeze.

Survival Of The Fiendest

A man rolling a cart
along the desert ground
with square wheels
and a vulture at the neck.

A beggar on the street
resting in the alley,
whisky beads rolling
down his darkly beard.

Mad soldiers and their
hack and slash,
swinging sword and board
while the helm blinds.

Liberated souls
are still damned
because freedom
is just a lie.

He who sits
on a high chariot
looking down on Man,
not lending a hand.

The fiends will feast
on the flesh of truth,
this plague of lies
and survival cries.

Author notes

Random expulsion of thought. No idea.

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