fawning over

this intrusive

morning

squandering

golden claims

while remanded

by midnights

canicular hailstorm.

and that lingering feeling,

that trigger-breath

supernova

of augury,

dampens

my palms

and awakens

an erratic

fluttering,

disrupting

my darken

chambers

imperils me.

i gaze vacantly,

my heterochromia gaze

unflinching

to the electrodes

amplifying

the hum of white noise

as that moment-

that damning

strip of translucent image

projects itself

upon the quelling

atmosphere,

swathing me.

mockingly,

Glory's honor

illuminates

repurposing

my indifference,

immortalizing.

but i exist,

disappointing you

in a variety of silence.

under the acrid,

burnt odor,

i compress,

substandardly,

i condense

until malfunctioning,

exposing me to you.

©️Meg. October 31. 2021

Photo credit: allpoetry.com

i cannot sleep

in this abrasive atmosphere.

lightning tunnels,

flames within my veins,

this tempest night spent

clawing at the ceiling.

cleansing harmonic rain-bath,

persistently prickling

of orphaned teardrops

pelts the pavement

reminding me of

the sound of the cathedral

tolling, wisps of sinful prayers

and your name returns home,

blaming the stars motive

and the moon's ambition.

in silvered silence,

guiding through the lace

while saintly guilt

slips on glass beads

the metallic flavor lasting

on my tongue, anxious to

prevent dawn from spilling

down muted eggshell walls.

©️ Meg. October 11. 2021

"When one burns one's bridges, what a very nice fire it makes." Dylan Thomas

and it should bother me

how i find comfort in these conversations,

burrowed in those silent stretches

thrumming your heart,

each battered beat

begging me to follow

foully, humming your farewells

since you were too busy to articulate

and i, the apathetic audience,

neglected to attend that Saturday.

perversely, strumming my calloused ink stained tips

along the length of lit paper star garland,

perplexing origami folds

and creases our wedding vows

and all that comes to mind is

i want to drizzle it in kerosene

to see those shooting stars

from auld lang syne,

when we laid in the dew dipped meadow

beyond your grandfather's barn

in that quixotic state of Saturday Matins,

where the fireflies veiled us in

under the meteor shower.

but those betraying fireflies!

now complacent as this winters lake,

a tormenting mirror pane

that blinds a white knight,

thwarting heroism for

the suffocating breathy voice

of Hyacinth's choking pleads

from your chloronic wake.

and i should be bothered

standing alone on the veranda

strumming the splintered banister

you promised to replace one Saturday

but Saturday elapsed.

no longer humming our dolorous hymn,

i composed a satirical threnody last Saturday,

and it received glowing reviews

and i thought of those shooting stars

betraying us with their dust

but those short-lived trails we lived

burned out and all that comes to mind is

i'm within a matchsticks striking distance.

©️ Meg. January 2, 2021.

"I am always with myself,

and it is I who am my tormentor."

- Leo Tolstoy

with stiffened fingers

you push your gin around

the ache you feel

won't drown

this troubled cloudy mood

condensed, still thickening

it's hard to let the sunlight in

and when your mud caked boots

grew roots downward

through scarred laminate flooring

you sipped your gin

deeper, deeper your roots progressed

questing for anchorage

but I can't grasp onto anything

I reach upwards for your ankles

to pull me through

... I can't keep this fight going...

and my muddy fingers turn raw

grasping for a trapdoor

to any place but this world

gin drops rain

and the slick soil swallows

... I know I'm losing my mind...

with ripped fingertips

I swirl my gin and sniff

the aroma of ammonia saturates

thickens and condenses around me

sipping my gin

i close my eyes and grin,

the taste of Christmas

fills me once again.

©️Meg. December 2, 2020.

we said our goodbyes

in Chicago

and I went west

and you went east

I died in the fire

You died in the hospital

in Chicago

we meet

and say goodbye.

©️ Meg. Nov. 10. 2020

"C-Can you h-help me, p-please?"

hushed-stuttered voice breaks her concentration. Shaggy coal hair- concern outlines his reflective Aviators. She's looking at herself. Timid smile retreats at his stretched grin.

"I-I was w-walking my dog w-when he took o-off after s-squirrel." Stuttering, he reenacted.

Worry fluttering, she surveys. Bustling park- walkers, bicyclists, playground.

"W-won't you p-please h-help me?"

*****

Coughing fit abruptly wakes her. Dried emerald eyes flush tears. Struggling to sit, heaviness tightens at her ankle. Stale smoke and mildew assail her as she regulates her breathing.

Focus.

Salmon walls. Cluttered white-chipped dresser. Antique vanity below loft bed. Perched in umbra, tangled matted ash hair shutters grey eyes. Filth splotches pallid face, frail arms, in drab dress. Strangling scent of rot.

"Didn't your parents teach you not to talk to strangers?"

©️ Meg. June 2. 2020

scuffed

and

slightly

dented,

Sharpie

scribbles

dried-

heavy in

hand

velvet

winterberry

Christmas

gown

with black

patent leather

mary janes

tissue

wrapped

ornament,

"Baby's First Christmas"

your name

"Holly"

engraved.

price tags

tucked,

delicately

preserved,

laid to rest

-cardboard

crypt.

©️ Meg. May 7, 2020

i.

lamming across

the rotting

fissuring

forest floor

calloused

torn soles

bruising

dampen soil

as cannonade

cotes me among

the Krumholtz

of the timberline.

ii.

in the frigid

alpine air-

aching bones

gnarled, as

overwrought

nerves crackle-

live power lines.

fierce

high-pitched

wails warn

rolled clouds

of amaranthine wool

announces

a tableau of

abstract

expressionism.

iii.

madders'

hanging silhouette-

soundlessly

screaming

at me.

his grip

entangled

black beaded

rosary,

worn leather

missal

rests upon

folded

suit coat.

gold coins

litter

beneath

his frame.

tear-dirt

streaks

along my

windburn

cheeks

trembling,

raking

matted hair

while my

muffled mind

gurgles up

lunacy

as his name

dries

upon my

lips.

iiii.

spinning

gold coins'

integrity,

patronizing

probability-

rusty

decadence

slicing

lucks' frame.

-gasping,

lurching

upright

night sweats

in summer's

humidity

crickets chirp

incessantly.

© Meg. May 7, 2020.

twilight

claims

daylight

buried

deep in

down

pulling

crumpled

navy lump

safeguard

beneath

my pillow

smoothing

cotton hem

creases

reverently,

tracing

emblem

streaming

soundless

laments

©️Meg. May 3, 2020.

walled-in

skinned

slumped

spines

humanity

sans flesh

roles

genius

and gallantry

veins

kettle stitch

to kettle stitch

monstrosities

and varlets

punched

parchment

damsels

and dames

compressed

restrained

enchantment

wilting

along

for edges

labored

works

of merit

and impurities

suffering

austerity

conscious

deprivation

under the

drippings of

a candelabra

chandelier

from an

amethyst plush

gold gilded

chair

a raconteur

murmurs

of a recalcitrant

athenaeum.

©️Meg. May 3, 2020.

Picture prompt credit https://www.deviantart.com/c17508/art/gothic-library-195478804