The horde

Astride a tattered apishamore, the gossamer flesh of perception interflows with her own translucence

Harassed by the frenzied sycamores, as they gaure through contempt and dissonance

They blindly hurl their calumnies, rendering her angelic glow foredone

She bears in this chaos her harmony, smearing just running kohl into war paint

Emboldened by the vile loess, she detaches from the ignorant horde’s reality

And behind her petrous passivity, she’s deafened, but for the soughing at her breast

art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

Objects without a story

Not lionized or accursed, not a source of wisdom or song

Objects without a story, unburdened with sentiment; devoid of outward interest, lacking a beginning and charm

Pitiable and stagnant, awaiting their decaying epoch, as no roving eyes pause upon them, disabused of desire

Resigned to dwine in their shadowed box unbidden

They abrade no memory’s surface, yet steadfastly collect the dust of ages, and ash of bridges

They neither twitch a lip to herald a smile, nor stitch a brow to presage a justified frown

They are nothing in the overwhelming nothingness

No one remains to inquire, no one qualifies to respond; unrecollected, she exists; an object awaiting

Begging of her breath to halt its march; pleading with the rose to wilt with her prose

Lest she be forced to remember herself

art: void of non-existence by Peterio

Fellow

Atramental remiges occulting her light, an embrace from the silver-tongued magpie, lone and sorrowful

Stelliferous flickerings perturbing her sight, a clench of the eyes, thrust behind the wicked iron constriction

Echoes from the bloodnouns surrounding her plight, a subfusc serenade, mesmeric premonitions of her vagary

Colubrine ligatures binding her tight, scales of their justice, pressed on by the alarm of the feathered Svengali

An aboulic arain army patrolling the night, in a swelling chaotic cluster of disquieting deference

A wish through the wire for freedom and flight, as the intersilient moon offers her empathy and condolence

Psithurisms taunt the immured weeping wight, while the warden longs, desperate for the safety of his cage

art: fellow by Peterio

Heartland

He breaststrokes through the bogland, with a mind, twilight-kissed, thoughts too heavy to keep him adrift

So succumbs to algedonic toxicities, of wayward desperate diversions, yea, sly reality perversions

Breathing retribution when his face embraces the mire, beclouded, befuddled, malicious memories afire

A pyre, now his form, drawn to depths by the quag, his ensuant joy obscene, and then hope intervenes

The unwelcome host, turns his body afloat, treading conscious morass, he questions the violation, that it would harass

Then poses dead man in the heartland, with a mind in stark reverie, a nepenthean reprieve, ever destined for brevity

art: days by Peterio