Tag Archives: money

Amphora

Good morning! I’ve got a poem inspired by ancient greek history for you today. It’s been one hell of a year for me so far. I finally graduate in December. I suppose I’ll have to change the About Me page. Exciting! Without further ado…

Amphora

Empty vessels,

these amphorae,

they stand the test of time

with so many stories

laid upon their old and tired skin.

They tell the tales

of long-forgotten ails,

of ancient whales

and ill-remembered pales.

On them are the histories,

the scorching, burning blisteries

that would assault you

at a touch.

They care not for you today,

locked in everlasting clay,

locked in everlasting decay.

Blood trickles down the face

of an ancient warrior

entrapped by monster’s embrace.

Entranced as you are,

you cannot stray,

you cannot look away.

Not from the sight of such dismay.

Crimson pools at its base

and soaks your filthy shoelace.

Perhaps there’s something to this old and empty place?

Battered and bruised,

you’ve made good on this chase

but coming to a head,

now you’ll realize that there’s just far too much red.

Brilliance of the Erstwhile Mind

Good afternoon, everybody! It’s been a while since my last post – my apologies. If it’s any consolation, I’ve certainly been in the kitchen. Just cooked up a hell of a poem for y’all today and I sincerely hope that you enjoy it. Let me know what you think in the comments below and don’t forget that you can follow, donate or contact me with links at the bottom of the “About Me” page. Without further ado, please enjoy…

Brilliance of the Erstwhile Mind

Awash as he is in prismatic violence,

assaulted by waves of color and silence,

the man opens his mouth to let out a scream

and nothing comes out but bubbles and steam.

~

Lacking lungs to breathe

and breath to seethe,

this cold and empty violence

rips and tears the skin away

in shrieks of angry violets.

~

Unabated, the silence grows louder;

his ears fill with crushing deference;

humility.

Screeching as the banshees do.

~

Fleshless, violescent, iridescent hell;

it scrapes the skin from his skull,

exposing his tissues to the void.

Forced to reticence and destroyed.

~

What beauty comes from this?

The ending then of bliss?

The dream of but a single kiss?

~

Then, there, in his final moments

he’ll dream of the beginning,

the middle,

the end.

Die Wilde Jagd

Good morning, everyone! I have been in something of a rut as of late. This has reduced my writing output… but not killed it. Today, I have for you a piece inspired by a fairly popular part of germanic/european culture: The Wild Hunt. Let me know if you dig it in the comments below. Also let me know if you’d have any interest in other mediums for my writing. Youtube channel? Anyway, without further ado…

The Wild Hunt (Die Wilde Jagd)

And so the riders tread their way across the sky,

sheathed in dreaded blackness.

At their head does bray one ghastly steed

that now you’ve seen

is forced to feed.

It strikes a chord

and does pursue

in one cascading cavalcade.

There is no flight

from the absence of light.

Hounds bark and thrash

against their horrid masters

but sounds do not they make,

lest you’ll join them faster.

Ghouls and ghosts do fill their ranks

silenced by swords and bombs and tanks.

Hoofbeats pound

and horns do sound

as sailors crash and drown.

This time it is you they’ve come to see,

so lost are you in that ancient sea.

You’ll join them now

if just to be.

Die Wilde Jagd ist wieder gekommen,

und sie musst fressen.

Entombed

Good afternoon, everybody! I’ve got another little piece today. Something sadder than the last one. Without further ado, please enjoy.

Entombed

The writing, my dear.

Scrawled there on the wall;

can you see it?

Those old runes…

What could they mean, my darling?

Chicken-scratch, sure.

But what if?

What if there is something to them?

What if it’s about us?

What if it means something?

All of it.

Can you read it?

Interpret for me the symbols of antiquity?

You always were smarter than me.

I am confused.

Something you’re all too familiar with.

It made me angry before.

Now?

A hollow sadness.

Memories and dreams reverberate through old and decrepit halls.

Could you…

Could you help me remember?

What am I doing here?

Where was I going?

Who are you?

Who…

Who am I?

The Plight of the Firstborn Son

Good afternoon, everyone! I have been so incredibly busy that I have hardly had the time to write though it is with a glad heart that I would present to you a new piece written by, and you may have guessed it, yours truly. While I hope that you enjoy it, I do hope that you don’t relate too strongly to the images it paints in your head. That would break my little old heart. Without further ado…

The Plight of the Firstborn Son

The plight of the firstborn son,

that one,

the only one,

his hazel eyes.

Reflections,

refractions,

green and gold and amber…

Nothing quite like him,

you know?

I look into his eyes,

my eyes,

seeing someone I never recognize;

someone I never fully realize.

His eyes, they change in the light.

If only it were,

that you could tell

what he’s supposed to be.

What is he supposed to be?

All alone

inside his head

through stained glass

I peek and peer.

What is this man?

A boy who sits upon a pew?

A man who lies when you already knew?

No pattern,

I don’t recognize…

There’s nothing all around.