Makeshift Heaven & Cryptic Earth

Makeshift Heaven & Cryptic Earth


I decided it was time to move beyond my old poetry thread to get a sense of freshness for everyone with a passing or deeper interest in the kind of work that I do, in addition to inspiration for me as well.

For those who are familiar with my work, I specialize in mostly freeverse poems and I do a song now and then. Other than that, sometimes I go with the more standard rhyme format, if I'm feeling a little formal.

So, here's something to pull newcomers in (hope it works! )

NOTE: These poems can sometimes be edited slightly over time, so multiple reads can often glean an even deeper result.



Shadow Dream

The stone skyline splits as I am born, creates an avalanche of sound that charms the cryptic earth like ancient rhyme. The air whines with the noise of voice against voice, and rings in my ears. I am among a vagrant crowd that quarrels with its many selves when not polishing mirrors. So is the way of my race... This is not beyond me. Among all sapient energies, it seems I am essential; this is the curse of the mind. At heart, what subsists this soul is the ten thousand things. I reach for a treasure, and it becomes waste before my eyes. A layer of enchantment pulses over everyday life, making it hard to distinguish matter from mind. I reach out for a hand, it takes me, and then I cast it behind into the waiting mouth to which my back is turned. It is vast and burning, and I sometimes hear it whisper my name. I wait alone for something I've never had, reaching for substance in a white room of desire.

Nice to see some writings from you again.

With this piece... well, it has good imagery, but your overall meaning is a bit hard to follow. (...this could be because it's 1 am, but still. <<; ) So, if it's alright to ask, what are you trying to get across with this poem?

Originally Posted by southern belle

Nice to see some writings from you again.

With this piece... well, it has good imagery, but your overall meaning is a bit hard to follow. (...this could be because it's 1 am, but still. <<; ) So, if it's alright to ask, what are you trying to get across with this poem?

Thanks. X3 I am sorry if it seems too elaborate...Kinda how my mind works.

Whore of Thanatos

Death is Life’s lust ended, and leaving the body,
but then again, I lie convincingly; it becomes Death itself.
So poetry fabricates for convenience,
while I am forced to eat these salt-in-the-wound tears.
I touch a pressed rose, several years old,
a whore of Thanatos with her plumage upright and proud.
She was crushed the day my grandmother tumbled into dust,
I assume, to keep her company.

That was a good one! I really enjoyed the imagery you used here. I also liked your use of unrhymed verse here. Keep it up! :3

Thank you, Vey! I wasn't sure what kind of reaction I'd get with that one. I've been so focused on comedy lately I was afraid I'd mess it up. X3 And yes, I am in love with freeverse now, I plan to do a lot more of it and less prosetry.

Love the title, the poems are great. They're not poems with big words, ambiguous use of characters and settings, and all dark and moody in an attempt to seem "deep" like the majority of **** out there (although Shadow Dream comes close). It's actually intelligent, though. The second is definitely the better of the two.

I WANT MOAR

Internal Damnation

The servant Brothers Logic and Reason
live with both the ignorant and the wise.
The two of them are quite indifferent to man;
they serve who is appointed their master:
for good or ill, like children.

As their master ages, he grows hasty,
and appoints assistants called Assumptions, a rigid sort,
to give directions to the Brothers based on the master’s general conceptions.
They rarely are inspected, and expectedly so, for the owner
freely idles without much disturbance.

The master grows sluggish with each new assumption,
and eventually his mind works entirely in autonomy. His certainties,
made in the distant past, clash with reality, but unless the supervisor
dares to venture and correct his convictions,
they are happy to be paid in vain
with the pleasures granted in false confirmation.

But the sounds of discord below haunt the master always.
The isolation grows only deeper without attendance,
He eventually forgets his original role,
and enters the path of a slave,
obedient to the revolving machinations of Hell.