Haunted

The alarm sounds

a death scream

plummeting me

into a waking nightmare.

I brush my teeth

out of necessity

as a mosquito teases

my ear.

I glance in the mirror –

it fractures.

The voices begin

to antagonise.

I throw clothes over

my corpse.

I walk out the door

your ghost

haunting my shoulder –

today is a good day,

the weekend

will be worse.

Ode to Spring

I.

I remember the beginning of this cruelly dark nightmare,

before souls were crushed and gnawed by its jaws

before flesh was torn and flayed beneath moonlight

before cyclones raged between temples and roared.

The soil was soft and soaked and fertile

smelling rich of lavender and petrichor

scents soared through nostrils and dilated pupils

filling the lungs

with ferverous

ardor.

 

Spring promised harvests of fresh flowers and sunrise –

dreams of azalea beneath blazing blue skies.

Wisteria would vine around bones, softly squeezing –

nourishing bodies and blooming with life.

The sun would burn lustful in a warm crimson shade

and honeyguides would chirp as the heavens poured rain –

stimulating the senses with beauty and wonder

if only had Winter

not torn us

asunder.

 

II.

What should grow now from this desolate dry permafrost?

Soils snapped frozen by Khione’s icy breath

insufflating, expanding and engulfing like vapour

glaciating the Sun to an ultramarine orb.

Veins of light beg to crack through its surface

exuding from the soft sultry flame at its core

bones rattle, crack and chill to the marrow

as life wails for release

from this enclave

of cold.

 

I remember the moment before madness took hold

before hail showered shattering psyches like glass:

souls emanating heat, burning together as snow

fell softly upon her violin-string eye lashes.

Snowflakes melting and flowing and merging

subsumed by sorrow in a rivulet of tears

a bittersweet blend of love and contrition

now frozen still

in the stormy chill

of fear.

 

I gave her the knife as her eyes turned to stone

vowing her breadcrumbs would lead the way home.

We inhaled the sunset’s final warm hue

as the blade pierced my chest splitting reality in two

and as sheets of blood spilled cold from my veins –

I prayed that the Spring

may heal our

raw wounds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Identity Lost

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A spider

beautiful, black, orange and sprawled –

sits at the centre of his well spun prism of steel strong web.

Invincible, like a king.

Consuming anything and everything that enters his selfish trap.

 

Spray, spray.

He seethes as the pesticide invades his being –

twitching, resisting, this cannot be.

Falling to the ground – broken, withered, bound;

death cries imminent.

Who am I?