phoenixrising

  Wounds,  They have a way  Of making you stay, In a place that you’d rather forget.  Wounds,  They heal  When you no longer feel Their presence any way.  Wounds,  That slowly turn into scars  Only the flesh, they seemingly mar.  But what of the damage inside?  Wounds,  Are rarely skin deep  They are portals that seep,  Pain and remembrance of healing and hell.  Wounds,  Inflicted - when and by whom? A tiny crackle or a resounding boom?  How effective was the cut to your soul?  Wounds,  They are best stitched up and soon  Before the sun gives way to the moon  So that your skin (and heart) may be whole… 

Colonel Mustard,  Finished his custard  And in the shadowy dining hall, mused,  Of all the weapons, he’s ever held  Was it his service revolver they used? ***** Miss Scarlet,  Never a star and always a starlet,  Roams restless in the hall today… The dagger she keeps, as sacred garter  Pricks at her flesh,  but this evening, doesn’t cut her… ***** Professor Plum,  Is rather glum,  The library yields no hidden clues … The candle, in turns, burns and flickers, While his palms grow moist even quicker.  ****** Mrs Peacock,  Her feathers now truly ruffled  Let’s loose an expletive, politely muffled.  The conservatory is her haunt tonight ,  Her velvet rope, to deal with every blight.  ****** Mrs. White,  Oh what a sight!  The household is all in disarray tonight.  The kitchen rolling pin, swapped for an unwieldy spanner  Her demeanour far removed from her usual manner…  ****** Reverand Gre...

  Shimmering sands of black and silver  Cover my sandal, my feet and linger,  Those needy little beads of sea and kelp Slip through my palms, even as they cling to my finger…  As the Aegean kisses the sun-warmed shore The moon, it rises as a goddess of yore  All sensual and salty, as beautiful as she is  Of herself, she will give only so much and no more…  The cooling sands, now tickle my toes  And I know that at last, it is time to let go  As the fishermen must eventually reject the waves’ sway  I too, must return home at the end of the day…  The sands, they fall and scatter in the wind,  And I sigh and reluctantly come into myself  This mad Greek adventure of land and sea  Has paid reparations of peace and belonging to me…   

  ‘But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?’  T’is I, Tybalt, son of the morose twilight  And not Juliet, the raging eastern sun…  Though the glow of her heralds the    beginning of day,  My seeping blood doth colour thy skies dark grey  A love much greater than that which you know  No shallow, callow youth in fleeting lust’s throe…   Honour, thy name is now mired in shame  With the capitulation of Capulet; its voice now tame…  For duty doth claim a higher seat than love  As decreed by bloodlines and the good God above…  Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? I see you not Only, your pointed sword, now drowned in a familiar scarlet blot  That red is mine, brought forth to defend a lie,  Of a love that claims tribute over all that I call ‘mine’ and ‘my’…  As the tempest in my heart, ebbs and flows  So must your love bring all and everyone low  These two households alike in dignity and ...

  A gift, she said  Of orange and red  A womb, not a star  To hold all life  A pregnant Celestial  Of fire and fertile. Hell hath no fury  As a mother abused  Her gifts squandered,  Her soul sorely used.  A brutal reckoning  Between man and his sire  A release of righteous rain  And dark storm clouds of dire.  Where would you hide?  You, of fragile bone and blood When the earth parts her thighs  And her innards flood.  Where would you run?  From the only home you’ve known.  More nourishment reaped here  Than gratitude sown.  Bow down to her fury  Her benevolence, her claim  Kneel to her power  Lest it be the end of your game.