Curiosity’s Oddity

 

In the midst of thunderous gale.

A noose is loosened.

Dislodged from a ceiling.

Where the lead is chipping and peeling.

 

Stones, previously marked with similar name.

A pastime of clientele hanging on shame.

The obliged have always wondered.

Can you cremate pain?

Thus, hold onto dignified days,

and their remains.

 

A participant of curiosity’s oddity.

I, too, have queried…

What remains of the day?

And,

All the protocol that stands in the way.

 

Deadpan Beauty

If I had taken my blinders off.

What would I see?

Everything that others have assumed to be?

The aberration is dim.

Not yet completely out of sight.

Gleam to a dull knife.

So this is what happens when you can no longer afford disillusionment?

Potted and plotted on the earth’s dance room floor.

Within such grounds,

magnetic beauty had not been the cure.

Covens where fashionable blindfolds are of use…no more.

Further proof, ‘you cannot take allure with you…when you go.

Just cold sores…grounded…above and below.

Curiosity’s Oddity

 

In the midst of thunderous gale.

A noose is loosened.

Dislodged from a ceiling.

Where the lead is chipping and peeling.

 

Stones, previously marked with similar name.

A pastime of clientele hanging on shame.

The obliged have always wondered.

Can you cremate pain?

Thus, hold onto dignified days,

and their remains.

 

A participant of curiosity’s oddity.

I, too, have queried…

What remains of the day?

And,

All the protocol that stands in the way.

 

Daughter’s of Bastards. Son’s of Bitches

 

They say, there is a ghost in every house.  And, if we make peace with it.  IT will remain quiet.

-Vietnamese Proverb

daughter's of bastards.  son's of bitches.

Daughter’s of Bastards.  Son’s of Bitches.

 

These pillars seemingly in the way.

Built on purpose.

Layered out in a definitive service.

To this restless soul,

it appears as a shelter without a circus.

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So, well-traveled traveler,

What do these markers matter?

Earthed centuries,

past cast caskets,

campfire stories,

fading fast.

Indeed a tell-tale sign to history’s androgynous mask.

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A sometime headstone’s snippet of sage advice…

whilst strolling down memory lane.

Vacancy, granite posts, and, monochrome plains.

imageedit_30_2750557161

The dead tell no lies.

The dead have nothing to hide.

 

 

 

Finding Elizabeth

elizabeth 3

 

Should I look forever…

or,

does it even matter.

Lazily, leaving the dead…

where they belong.

 

Searching for answers…bloodline long.

Again, another, swan song.

elizabeth 1

The air I breathe…

had been,

the air…

you breathe.

Nothing more than stone pillars of deceit.

 

Cannot turn back now.

Over underpasses,

blank faces of autonomous cases.

In between the yellow lines…

nothing but life by design.

 

Hostages have claimed desolation and reservation.

We are, you and I…

birds of a feather in poetic procrastination.

Mercy and misery

Common cousins

baptized in the brook…

chapters to a closed book.

 

Gripped and stripped at the picket fence.

I found you, as the day, you had left.

Named but nameless

Victim but witness.

I had hoped to be impressed.

Elizabeth, ‘I hear you calling but I can’t come out today.’

Speechless, before me you lay

Yet, I have found nothing is what I should say.

So, a stone has been found…

and,

by blood we will be bound.

elizabeth 2

Strange, as the earth conforms to my dismay

Ashes to ashes,

dust to dust,

as the story goes,

I will have come this far to…not know.

 

To not know what happened down below.

To not know what happened down below.

 

Letting bloodlines go

Letting bloodlines go in order to revive.

Odd, it is the dead who remind us,

we are alive.