Gods blood

Falls down

Fire and spirit.

My baptism.

My praise

Goes up

spirit and truth

His salvation.

The great exchange,

Your life;

My chains.

Your touch;

My pain.

Your covering;

My shame.

Chin up oh warrior

Stand sturdy in your stronghold

My crest fallen friend

Man of kindness and mercy

Even when your own kingdom turns against you and slanders your good will

Don't let them break you

My friend of so many moons

Slay your dragons

And reclaim your kingdom brick by brick

Be the man I cannot be

You have fought many battles

You deserve loyalty and respect but don't demand it

My crest fallen friend

My kin

Stay firm in your compassion for your kingdom

And if all crumbles know that I will be there

I will be your shield and sword when you are weak at the knees

I will help raise your banner when others try burn it

My crest fallen friend

Just another day

Where the demon's at play

Ripping and tearing

My soul to filet

Just another time

Where I turn to rhyme

Trying to find a way

To just pass the time

How many times

Will I feel like a failure

How many rhymes

Until I'm free from the jailer

Suicide is no fun

At the end of a gun

And I know there's no hope

At the end of a rope

So what's left is pain

Stabbing into my brain

Leaving me with no illusions

That I stand to gain

So many days

Stuck in this malaise

Watching and waiting

With a ten mile gaze

Staring in the abyss

In ignorant bliss

Trying to figure out

The reason for this

No answers to find

Even I'm not that blind

Still an ignorant slave

To a fragmented mind

But as I write this

I rise from the abyss

The power of these words

Helping me to dismiss

All of the rage

And all the sorrow

So I can be ready

To live for tomorrow

The sun is a splintered arrow

Lead heavy

Piercing the outmost parts

Eclipsed by wayward dark

And I relent

As my bone scraped frame

Wearies

That this slyly pusillanimous town

Desires to eat me up

For hate pants in want of company

And I say

Leave me be

You prison of flesh and dreams

I’ve rung the toll bell’s toothache heart

That I might bond outward

Where I belong

Far from the miserly lot

And closer to an umbrella of refuge

Spirited to shield my collapsed autistic brain matter stew

Off the headstone parish

And into oblivion’s sinkhole hope

It's a strange impression

Persistence of Memory

makes...

a theme so grande

one would think

it should be

painted across

the ceiling

walls and

floors

even,

but actually

it's very small

not tiny,

just enough

to humor

the cynicism

of the title.

11.15.2024

Pencils don't bend challenge @Last

Growing up is knowing that

No one knows what's going on

We're all in pain

And we're all failing at it.

Growing up is knowing that

You are not your emotions

You are a soul, living in a mortal body

With emotions that pass through you

Growing up is learning that

We are all trying to do the best we can

With different problems

That no one but you and G-d

Will ever fully know

Growing up is learning that

You have a choice

To let your pain lead you

Or to lead your pain

As Kahlil Gibran would say

The bowl that overflows with milk and honey

Is the same bowl that was hollowed with knives

Growing up is knowing that

You are not alone

Because we're all fucked

(Cross posting this from a challenge I created and entered yesterday)

The dim, smoky glow of the tavern lanterns cast wavering shadows against the wooden walls. The oaken surfaces stained from years of spilt ale and drawn blood from drunken brawls.

The warm, yeasty scent of beer mingled with the tang of sweat and the faint note of rusty blades and daggers. Patrons spoke in hushed voices, keeping one eye on their drinks and if they were lucky enough to have a second, on whoever staggered in through the battered oak door.

I sat at my usual corner, back to the wall, nursing a tankard of bitter soured ale and shuffling a deck of Gwent cards that had seen better days. Each frayed at the edges and crease marks running their surfaces.

My reputation unfortunately preceded me, a trickster with nimble fingers and the sharpness of a knife hidden in the smile. Dagnar is the name and separating patrons from their coin the game.

A ripple of unease whispered through the room as the door creaked open on its half broken hinges. The cold forced itself in on a gust of frigid wind like a wicked omen. A precursor of a bad night on the dark horizon. He walked in, tall and pale, dressed in all black and silver, with the kind of presence that sucked the air from the lungs leaving one speechless. Scars crisscrossed his face, each line a history of violence. And surely a horrid tale that went hand in hand with its presence.

His eyes, those damned eyes, glowed like embers from the depths of a dying fire. A fire that didn’t need much prodding to become adequately stoked. I didn't need a name to know who this man was. A Witcher.

The chatter died down as he strode past tables of farmers and soldiers, boots thudding with the cadence of a death march. He halted by the hearth, the flicker of flames licking at his silhouette, and let his gaze sweep the room like the precision surgeon’s blade. For a moment, I held my breath, fingers tightening on the edge of my cards.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that could cleave stone. I caught the bartender’s eyes shifting nervously, but no one answered.

The Witcher sighed, more weary than frustrated, and turned to face me, as if he had known where I was the whole time.

“You there,” he said. My grin was automatic, masking the twist of anxiety and fear burbling in my gut. I felt the sudden rush telling me to run for the outhouse. “Aye, Witcher. What brings you to our humble corner of Novigrad?” I raised my tankard in a mocking toast.

“Yennifer. I’m told she was seen passing through,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Have you heard of her whereabouts?”

“Ah, the sorceress,” I drawled, pretending to think while I shuffled the deck. The cards slapping against the table buying me time to phrase my thoughts. “Perhaps we could make this interesting? A simple game of Gwent. I win, you share a drink, a tale, and toss me a copper. You win, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Another ploy to buy me time.

The room collectively exhaled, tension slipping from their postures and they resumed their duties and conversation. The Witcher’s lip twitched, half amusement, half disdain.

“Fine,” he said in his voice that sounded like raking stones. He pulled up a chair and sat across from me. He dropped a pouch on the table; the heavy clink of coin echoed. “Deal.”

I set the cards, fingers moving deftly, sliding in a marked one just so. A dangerous move on my part, but my hope that his hands weren’t as well versed in cards as they were with his weapons. A few rounds passed in tense silence. Outside, the wind howled like a starving wolf. Inside, soldiers whispered about Nilfgaard’s relentless push north, about the battered Redanian defenses and whispers of a rebellion brewing in Skellige. The war may be drawing to a close. Gods be praised. But here at our table, there was only the game, and the Witcher’s unsettling gaze catching every flinch, every tell.

“You’re sweating,” he noted, laying down a biting frost card that turned the tide.

“Just the heat,” I replied smoothly. But my stomach churned as I watched my carefully laid strategy fall apart. My siege troops no longer holding their position on the table they once had. I played the Mysterious Elf card and a knowing smile crossed my face.

He stared in disappointment at the layout of cards upon the table, then seeing his defeat pushed the cards into a pile for reshuffling. “Strange,” The pale Witcher said, glancing at my deck. His golden eyes met mine with a knowing glint. “Your cards … they’re heavier than they should be.”

I feigned a chuckle, a sound as thin as parchment and attempted to change the course of conversation. “You never said your name, your accent? Is it Rivian?” I tried to snatch the cards back, but his hand shot out, iron-hard fingers closing around my wrist.

“Cheaters don’t deserve mercy,” he growled.

Time slowed to a heartbeat, then splintered into chaos. I reached for the knife at my belt, but he was faster. His chair clattered to the floor as he drew his steel sword in a flash of silver. The blade caught the firelight as it swung toward me; I stumbled back, drawing my knife too late.

A roar erupted as patrons scrambled for the exits, tables overturned and tankards spilled, beer slicking the floor. He advanced upon me, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. I lunged, aiming for the gap beneath his ribs, but he sidestepped with the grace of predator on the hunt.

“Igni,” he intoned, and flames roared to life from his outstretched hand. I cried out, throwing up an arm to shield my face. The heat seared, blistering skin in an instant.

“Damn you to the nine Hells!” I spat, desperation clawing at my throat. I swung wildly, the blade catching nothing but air. His foot slammed into my chest, sending me sprawling into an upturned table. Pain shot up my spine as I crashed to the ground, the room spinning.

“You know where she is,” he said, sword tip pressing against my throat, cold as a winter's kiss. I gasped for air, vision spotting.

“Sod off,” I managed, defiance trembling in my voice.

A second of silence, then the blade sank in, swift and merciless. My world shrank to a pinpoint of pain before slipping into blackness. Over the din, I heard him mutter, half to himself, “I’ll find you, Yen.”

The last thing I saw as my eyes began to lose their focus was the Witcher’s unyielding expression as he pulled his sword free.

these legs have places to be

quickly up the hill

they scurry

possessed by a wilful spirit

unbound from a restless mind

beaming keep-alives to the mother ship

that love will take you by surprise

but they are wrong.

you took me by surprise,

or you would have if not for

the fact that you knew

not to rush it

to take our time

and it forced us to evolve

bit by bit together

so no, you did not

surprise me

because I have seen you

from the start

and you have known me

slowly, and deeply

and to know that

i love you

is no surprise to me -

none at all.

because you made sure

from the start

that there would be

no surprises.

and that is

the best part of all.

The you can piss off parade

Collective jar of flies

Made its final rounds.

Chew the scenery

If you have a meagre minute…

“I’ve had enough”

The muse screamed

And deaf were the envious

Though she gave up the ghost

Vacating its former lot

Among the plebeian potluck

Spooned out for the naive brigade.

She drew her intake vapours

Through a smouldered wick

Cracked desert spillover

From cracked arrow

And pointed purse lips

For how the colossal truism

Or what have you

(If you’re starved of vocabulary)

Is that the eminent dim bulbs

Overstepping both logic and reality’s fist

Are shrouded by way of turncoat mists

But would you listen to her

Should you stumble upon a poem exiled

To an unflavoured isle

Seasoned ripe

But doomed to obscure plains

With pettiness and pride

The silly culprit

Pulled trickster lobster back

From an even sillier rabbit’s hat.

The brittle hearted muse

Was born to battle

Amongst a sunken halo’s

Blistered starfall

Charged with disintegrating furies

Their bloom blood ballet

Winking above tedium’s crest

Across a charcoal broiled sky.

And this is a pointed message for you

And this is a liturgy for I

When ignoble parasites crawl meekly

And kiss Jesus cheeks

With Judas ire

Best to step on them

Goeth the time ragged rhyme

For the vainglory stride

Crushes the poetic spirit

Because Dassendorf boots

Resound a drill hammer echo

Recalling the collective stampede…

And serves to the discerning

And additionally the wise

That the blind leading the blind

Cursed with quick reflective

Yet cursory flitting eyes

Are a servanthood of ingrates

Becoming the very machine

They once railed against

In a black and blue melee

Or an insider fight

Warring with each other

And eaten by homely pride.

Stepping off the floated parade

Says one who is wise

Because you’ll waste all of your pearls

On the backstabbing swine.