poetry prose pyrope

Worlds don’t apologize for death. 
There’s immorality to godhood, 
A lack of mercy in their breath. 

Beauty is framed by lies so cruel,
That only slaves can be the masters 
As only they know fatal rules. 

Cutting Nettles

Today’s a new day, terminated
By breath so innocently bated
For cutting nettles in the wind, 
Grass mimicking rain on the skin.
The end, perhaps, had been belated,
But life that’s left can’t be so jaded
To be wilted and felled within. 
I watched our garden with a grin. 

Surrealism shreds the senses
With visions of a floating dream
Rising in evanescent steam
From undivided differences.
My sky might be your carpet earth
But that’s defined by round rebirth. 

I am far better than the way 
That the deep night of swollen fear
Secretes the prodigy of day. 
I am, despite the louring rain
The ether’s potent puppeteer
And will swing excellence again.

Hate burns the veils of the mind
And it is better to be clear, 
Raw, open, red, burning and blind,
Rather than mothering delusions
In slime drenched halls of swollen fear. 
Anger is better than confusion. 

The street is drowning in sweet lace-
The sky unraveled at my feet, 
In clusters of belated space
Tucked into floral lives. From stone
The blossoms traced tendrils of heat.
Spring: ethereal to her bones. 

Is there a challenge life can throw me? 
Come on, dear fate- you play the cards, 
And yet, as though you barely know me, 
Present me with a soft embrace. 
They act like it’s so fucking hard
To stare the cosmos in the face.

You are a sea born from the air, 
You are the light that guides my steps, 
You are the thought I entertain- 
The sun I pocketed and kept. 
You are the secret scent of rain. 
You are epitomes of fair, 
And promptly just. My dusk and day. 
You are first daffodils of spring, 
You are the freedom of the night- 
The open dream of anything
Beneath a canvas splattered white. 
You are my smile of cliches. 

It Takes Iron to Make a Needle

I didn’t learn to plainly live
By methods of a phantom hand!
These stars are colder than my friends, 
Their light is cruel, but love will give
A sun to swallow: medicine
For stitching up forsaken ends. 

Why the sun still keeps on shining 
Is a mystery well hid
Under curtains, velvet linings
Of the clouds that dust the sky.
For the ether in my id, 
I don’t need a reason why.