Tag Archives: darkness

Jam Jars

Imagine if Death were a child,
A curious collector of things,
Of the fireflies flickering deep in our souls,
Kept in jam jars with polka dot trims.

Indexed, and ordered, and filed,
An exquisite, unparalleled trove,
An existential menagerie, if you will,
Indiscriminate, eclectic, and bold.

And the stories that she would amass,
Vast tomes atop dust laden shelves,
The penned trinkets and temporal titbits of man,
Bedtime tales of creation itself.

There would be quiet, unassuming ones, ones driven by love,
There would be ones that stood out from the rest,
There would be tragic ones, ones that would go forever unsung,
But the simple, honest ones would be the best.

Every jar, every soul, every book, every tale,
An epitaph for the universe known,
Her museum a beacon for those passing over,
Calling them, guiding them home.

Imagine if Death were a child,
She’d be lonely, she’d be lost and afraid,
But as she toed through the interminable dark after life,
Her jam jars would light up her way.

Sticky, Stuck

My mind is sticky, stuck,

That’s the tricksy part of luck;

To have these thoughts, these needs,

and to never set them free…

They do not know me yet

– closet hyperbolic wreck –

(See, they still think I’m sane

and I still play their games),

But my mind is sticky, stuck,

My lips are melted shut

while my heart growls, stomach screams,

and an earthquake rips my seams.

Black Dog’s pulling on his lead;

A hungry, rabid fiend,

Must let the right ones in

to this naked sideshow of my sin,

But my mind is sticky, stuck,

Disconnected, out of touch,

And they will see the cracks set in,

Watch through translucent skin,

See my insides turn to ash,

Watch me stutter, jerk, and thrash,

But they’ll never do enough

to get my sticky mind unstuck.

 

 

Well Played

I am through,
And it’s all on you.
I know that I will lose,
And when I do,
I know that I will choose
to welcome death,
I cannot catch my breath,
My eyes are sunken,
My mind is drunken,
My face is ripped off and I’m hunkered,
The body blows are raining
and I’m failing,
Because I cannot duck and weave,
How can I when I cannot even breathe?
There’s no reprieve.
I am drowning
in the sky,
I cannot hide,
The night
washes over like a tide,
Fills my lungs with poisoned dye
overflowing through my eyes
like acid tears,
And I am melting,
Dissociative and helpless.

I am through
and it’s all on you,
You could stop this if you choose,
But you refuse
to let it go,
Your heart is stone,
Your hooded deeds are hammers striking bone,
Your words alone are iron
and I am pummeled from a lion
to a haggard Jouvet cat,
Slipping from the only consciousness I had,
My head is lolling,
The water’s calling,
I am falling,
I am drowned,
The roar of life
has dragged me down
and it has left me
without sound,
Silent, bloated, blue.

I am through,
and it’s all on you.

Well played.

Popping Corn

My head is full of popping corn,
Must let the right ones in,
Some are bitter, some forlorn,
All sodden; soaked in sin.

My head is full of popping corn,
A jumbled, maze-like din,
I cannot breathe; my cords are torn,
I’m choking on the string.

My head is full of popping corn,
Can’t let the black dog win,
But his howl’s already filched my dawn,
His dark has drawn me in.

Eyes Wide Shut

I lay here
conversing with
my inner
eyelids,

We try in vain to find
the drowse,
But sleep still lurks
around here
somewhere,
Hiding like a
sulky child,

A night hag pins my
limbs akimbo
as memories
taunt
the peripheries,
In the very edges
of the darkness
I can’t hold on,
I am not me,

I lie at the end of
One Night’s Slumber
but One Night’s Slumber
is avoiding me,

Instead you’re left
with this imposter,
Who screams
at a pitch
to make hearts bleed,
With a tongue that lashes,
flails, belabours,
forked by the dryness
of fatigue,

And I’ll not know
the Sandman’s wonder,
Perchance to sleep;
Forgo the dream.

Asleep

I looked at him,
Into the emerald of his eye,
And he did not see me,
My fingers passed right through
the rosy blush upon his cheek
and he did not feel me,
I said that thing he always loved
and the words; they just evaporated
and he did not hear me,
And the saccharine scent of my perfume
that reminded him of butterflies
just fell into the void
and he did not smell me,
And he didn’t press upon
the worry of my brow
with the softness of his lips;
He did not taste me,

And then I knew
that I was asleep,

And then I cried
no tears.

Dying Light

I’m more tired than I can handle. My
light a dying candle
that flickers as it burns
and as it yearns at
the mercy of both
the very breath that ends
me and Sleep’s oh so dulcet zephyr as it
turns and sways me at its will!
And still I slumber not
and scarce can dream the last
time that I felt like me. That the
darkness was nought but night
That the daylight was just a pure delight. But
– ah –
to be free! That promise (that my
soul holds dear and that my foes
would gladly steal) is elusive and
mischievously unreal. Oh
how it taunts my
thoughts, how it says we’re friends
and then how quickly does that friendship end! It
takes so much more than it gives
as it cradles me so tight, a
helpless, babe in arms, a naïve lovely,
Drowning in the charms of dying light!

napo2014button2
This poem was written for NaPoWrMo. The challenge of the day was to ‘write a golden shovel’. If you read the last word in each line of my poem, it will reveal a poem called the First Fig by Edna St. Vincent Millay (written in full below).
I had such great fun writing it, hope you enjoy it!

First Fig
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!

– Edna St. Vincent Millay