if the footsteps behind me are mine

echoing off the marble floors in clips

and clops, heel-toe tempo in an envelope

do you think sound travels through time?

do you think the scream i release is

captured by the stained glass windows,

the same way harmonies and hymns once sunk

holy knives into ancient gilded glass for worship?

oh the song of God is a mourning call, as most

people will call out for their Father in times

distressful and hard. could i mail my death-throes

in the same audible envelope i arrived in?

wordless noise folded over and over again

pressed together and sharpened to a blade.

cacophony shoved into every corner and corridor

until the word of God is spoken under the echo.

so would you believe anyone can become a ghost?

since time is an echo and my last memories

tied to this place are a song i never wish to sing again.

since i remember a song i shouldn’t know.

since these halls are empty of sound,

and here, death is the only thing hallowed.

i’d wish my voice to travel far back in time.

if only to guide the people God left behind.

the beetles digging deep in my skin,

they're dyed in crusted, rusted alizarin.

blood or pigment there is no difference.

by the soil that which accepts me

i am become deliverence.

the way my skin melts into the glade

of which, the touch of decay,

sped along by April showers,

pummel the ground to a verdant grave

of which, my body lays down.

though perhaps a windy crescendo shall

herald the end.

after all, what other embargo walls

could the beetles erect in my lost flesh?

they eat to stall a love affair with death.

now, words like blaspheme make me ache.

for this rotting body is in a place

of consecrated ground,

and time will leave no lasting trace

of what these bones used to sing about.

oh, i’m afraid my patience is spent

for the world has too heavy a hand,

and it is the past i’ve come to lament.

old days of sunlit skies and hours content

i am a hungry body aching for love without remand,

but I’m afraid that patience is already spent.

if your patience were a thing of torment

i would recognise it, as the cheek knows the hand

love’s absence echoes, wailing in red lament.

recall the days i’ve darkened your door, bent

half over, swimming in brine and unable to stand.

you said quick - “i’m afraid my patience is spent”

didn’t you? quick to flee, these fickle creatures we pretend

to be; in love and unconditional on demand.

we must become figments to love, i lament. i lament.

sweet, i remember the touch of love once meant

for me, and me alone - though memory is cruel and

i’m afraid my patience is long spent.

such is the past i’ve come to lament.

Hey guys, I know I've become less and less active on this platform over the years, and it's not for lack of writing poetry. I've actually decided to open up a patreon in an attempt to save up and start self publishing poetry and other projects!

There are only three tiers so far, ranging from 3$ usd to 8$ usd, and I'll be posting a brand new poem every Wednesday. I'll also be posting some practice stories I've been working on, along with a wip of a fantasy novel I've been tinkering away at xD There's Q+A, there's possibly a community playlist, and in the future possibly a community discord!

If you're interested, I'd dearly appreciate it if you could check it out!

https://www.patreon.com/user?u=69267600

a corpse lies in my bed.

bathed in blue light, foggy eyes

stamped on an unmoving head.

it's growing fungus along the spine,

colored in reds, purples - fire and wine.

mushrooms lift from the sheets,

painting a skyline of decay, haunted

by that unearthly blue horizon.

light coming off that small device

embossed in still palms.

a simple, rectangular box, metal and silver

a coffin of it's own kind -

but somehow the picture i paint

is still beautiful, in a way.

we all die a little at night,

it's just the way the world turns.

so why not make death just

a bit more sublime?

after all,

we'll be dead a lot longer

than we'll be alive.

so this is where you've been.

so this is where midnight delivered you

after you broke that stupid clock, again.

should i be surprised to find you

lying on the floor, toasting the dog bowl

with your bubbling cider slucing

across the floor like someone painted

a path of disappointment for it to follow.

so this is cold indifference.

so this is why your father made that

ball and chain joke after our wedding vows.

after you laughed and decided our love

was akin to inprisonment, somehow.

at what point am i allowed to be angry,

i wonder.

at what point is my kiss not enough

to keep you where i can see you.

to keep those horns off your head when you

take too deep of a swallow.

the devil's drink burns your tongue and i

actually can't do this anymore.

i guess i'll just turn around

and leave you lying on the floor.

i guess that's all there is of us, now.

the wind is alive, today.

it moans and batters the walls of my house

like it means to find a way in.

like it wants to peel the roof off

and let the rain sink into the carpets

to let it become rotted

like the graveyard of leaves i find

every time i step outside.

did you know leaves can die?

did you know they leave a body behind?

a shadow of itself - a carved out impression

outlined in black rot and winter depression.

the wind wants my bones, i fear.

the way it howls for blood, frantic mess

of voices scraping at my house in

desperation and despair.

i'm afraid it wants me to rot with the leaves.

i'm afraid it's carnivorous

and it won't rest until my body is

a carcass in the stone -

hunted out of house and home.

it makes me wonder aloud

could i die

if the wind finds me alone?

heart impaled the shrikes are screaming

victory, victory!

as if the agony is supposed to mean something

more than misery

as if mounting my soul on a pike is meant to

make me fit in just right.

blending into this cacophony of society i must

destroy that soft part of me.

where it's pulse doesn't match my step anymore

because it's dead, forevermore.

a sacrifice rotting in the sun - melting, decaying

and at last it is done.

dripping rot into the earth i emerge hungry

and alone.

the shrikes have picked clean all that i used to be

so i walk away.

there is nothing left for me in this place.

i heard the marching come early, this year.

thousands of little feet tamping the earth

just above where i sleep.

they dance the same - their

joyous games played in the light of day.

where the call of 'trick or treat' is

so very loud i

can hear it from the dirt and weeds

because my home is the earth.

it is my house, and the bed where i sing

lullabies to the worms

coaxing them down onto my plate -

along with the turnips and potatoes and

everything that steeps in the dirt like a good tea.

Thanksgiving also came early this year.

i've gone and made my own feast.

but it's when the winter sinks

it's gnashing teeth into the ground

that i find my chains to be brittle.

binds of root and twig bloody my wrists

every day of the year -

but an early frost...what an omen indeed.

so early that Christmas might just see

more than just presents and fir trees.

oh, this year...it might just see me.

there are pieces of me that

wish to be the sun.

a deep longing in my bones

to burn a path across the sky

and leave nothing behind except

that lingering touch of heat.

where my heart aches to sweep

gold rays across the land

just to reach that single

moment of sunset - please

let me dip into the sea like

it's been waiting all day for me.

let me reach the horizon to

sink beneath the waves,

and let me take my time

drowning these golden rays.

because any kiss goodnight

tastes like salt from the sea, and

these fragments of me ache

to know that kind of peace.