I’ve been trying to talk
in the sandbanks of languid darkness,
eons of violets caved in embryos
a pitfall of resignation;
you can never hear my voice,
but you will see my eyes shift to the ground
spending reflection—who are you,
you, you are little known,
and that’s okay, as a faceless shore,
we do not need to be known.
Console me one night,
my blood. rushing. wenge.
Leach into the lady
of rocks; reverie mistrusted,
silence repeats on waned breath,
the plea for fate
preyed upon fleeing mind,
the wicked gallow of the sun
and it fell to the bled roots
in drought amid
on littoral crawls
on strings like a lute;
to ossicles; solipsism forms
over the cenotes
I succumb to my mistakes.
The pond abreast with spitting hue,
by my mother’s garden,
there are layers of hay which are blind
and torn to the swerving wind,
howling like lost, godless ashes
to the buoyant blackness of the sea
arborists stalk the forests
on a path of needed blood as we speak,
and the thin conscious effort eludes me;
a fragile feather to the death of ocean;
our paths toll and entomb in the despair of frost,
a celestial trial in the capillary precluding loneliness,
it overlooks the sand dunes, and the rocks rived with waves,
a shore and of blood; choose,
darting in its chip of ice,
pouring over teeth,
fetters the lip; layers of respire,
enflamed by loss and suffering.
Death wails alone
by the nascent shadow
gazed to the falls of penance
deciphering through most eyes
I can only say sorry, mother and father;
The slope of the sea twitches like a finch;
an ocean ribs and hollows
fallen to the eye
closed to the mosaic evolution
from blue winter to summer, aiutami,
in the death of itself; now it’s dark,
alone, guilt is my slow death.
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A/N: My attempt at a slam poem, I guess. Some lines were inspired by Voice of the Soul by Death. A great instrumental for those who enjoy a layering of electric and acoustic guitars. As well for those who listen to music/instrumentals while writing.