Lost memories

He was once a boy, too,
Although I didn’t know him then
He was never one to share
His how, his why, or when

He grew
He loved
He lost,
He reared
He lived
He died.

Scattered in the mountains,
On an autumn’s austral breeze
What then became the resting place,
For his lifelong memories

His first scraped knee
His first real kiss,
His first broken heart
His dearest bliss,
His deepest passion
His darkest abyss.

I’ll never know of his best day,
Or if he recalls when last he cried
I’ll never know what he thought of me,
Or hear of the childhood he hid inside

I only have my own memories,
Which is half our story’s tale
Perhaps one day we’ll catch up,
In an austral mountain gale

art: Autumn Descends by Tracy Webb

Whittle

Lip chewing

Making waves

Beneath heavy lids

Going down stares

Led by come hither fingers

Dripping darkness dares

To steel my clenched fist

Whittle flesh, make a man

Bereft of bone and sinew

Pedal and brimstone

Whet with gore and malice

Grinding shrapnel for dessert

Soaked in lies and afterthought

Napalm charring the bowel

Of a soul encrusted chalice

art: too late.. by Peterio

Mystical

Love, a spellbinding; when then
the incantations abruptly end;
what remains is the shockwave

of a mystical ensorcellment
nettling an atavistic hunger to
consume that which is beyond

the comprehension of the charmed;
an addiction to the enchantment
who answers no worship, obeys

no ritual, and rewards no sacrifice;
it grants only the illusion that
those engagements may unleash

the bewitching magic once again

art: Deliberation by Mario Sanchez Nevado

Dead things

In this corner do dead things dwell;
a stygian hollow hidden from his
heart lest weeping abet ablution; a
decaying hoard for self-inflicted

reminiscences; algor mortis befell
roseate osculations, lying cracked &
cold, sans sweet nothings & passionate
everythings, mere spavined archways

of ancient ruins; sobriquets foreign to
him, forgotten toxins that no longer
drip from his tongue, but tattoos on
the tip taunting unspeakable madness;

broken wings of quondam dreams in a
tenebrose reliquary of honor, untoward
recollections searing his penitential,
wandering eyes in a brazen attempt of

internecion; stagnant he sits amidst the
bloat, rummaging through a corner of
his moldering mind, blindly grasping
memoriter where dead things do dwell

art: by Eric Lacombe

Retrospective

Mired in retrospection
nary a decision
could be made

Wired by circumspection
never in progression
will he wade

Fired upon synapses
ignite the trangression
with a spark

Pyred within memories
candlelight suppression
now it’s dark

Gyred by apparitions
haunting reparations
end is nigh

Tired of self-reflection
willful separation
time to fly

art: The Apotheosis of Homer by Salvador Dali