365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Sixty-One

remember every scar.
he said.
then closed the lid.
left to his fate.
the anger motivates.
then destroys.
but erasure empties.
the beaten soul.


365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Sixty

Malkrum is coming.
mad, white, cold, this is real death.
mind empty and lost.

365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Fifty-Nine

these children of other gods.
we are denied by he.
who brought on this punishment.
the eternal joke.
they are abandoned as well.
our world too old to hold.
pleasure for beings.
who do not die.

creation all that satisfies now.
so many projects abandoned.
the universe groans under.
a quest for rebirth.
guilt and the ache of.
failed understanding.
scorch us all, it is.
their image we strive to.
though we have lost the way.

365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Fifty-Eight

moved by fear and the unknown.
we go to battle in an unspoken war.
no one too high to fall.
they made the monster sailing to.
unguarded shores, the sentient towers.
are awake no longer.

365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Fifty-Seven

a wraith stirs, hungry.
swallows past and future with.
no remorse or pain.

365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Fifty-Six

Less than ten days from completing this project, and I think I’ve settled on this blog’s purpose during 2014. We’ll be doing world-building, a day at a time. I’ll go over what I already have and then start making things up from there.

The end of this year of poems will be attempts to write some set in this world, yesterday’s was a start to that. And as all worlds need a living,  breathing culture behind them, the poems won’t stop in the upcoming year. I’ll probably write another 365, though may not post all of them.

Now, for Day Three-Hundred and Fifty-Six.

shut away for.
many days.
there is no light.
and sound without.
connections causes.
the first stages of madness.

body stagnant, unable to move.
must remember the catch.
an easy way out.
flexing of fingers and legs.
try to hold on to the semblance of self.
the connection of body to mind.
it is tenuous.

as are all plans of desperation.
story must be told, there are.
so many who depend on this.
so many to die before the tide.
brings this chosen prison.
to shore between the towers.
must remember the catch.
must remember the catch.

365 Days of Poetry: Day Three-Hundred and Fifty-Five

homeland filled.
with broken bodies.
and burnt children.
the air inside my box was sweeter.
while stealing across the sea.

coastline is the border crossed.
no rippling fjords of the North-
those were childish things,
barely formed when I saw them.
the first time I left.

a place, for want of finishing.
all failure seared to memory.
not mine, abandoned, now no one’s get.
free to find another life if not.
for fences and unbearble wet heat.

will ever-crushed, he held out a hand.
anyway, and returned the next night though.
I snarled like a feral thing, kindness.
the smallest part of life before.
repeated touch and the hope of purpose.

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