The Grim Reaper

The crows have gathered

Wreathing across the grey sky

Swollen with grief 

Before descending the crooked limbs 

Of an old oak;

Bending their heads

In solemn piety 

For the grim reaper

Approaching with the shadows;

Unseen to the natural eye

Hooded cloak draping

Grass blades tipped in crimson

Bearing memory

Of the place where she died;

A wraith roaming the shade

Wild daisies kissing at her feet

But without preamble

His scythe tears apart

Her gossamer soul

And she screams through

An imagined agony

Fighting to keep

The familiar burden 

Of spilled emotions 

Until she realizes

She is finally free…

Tortured Ritual

Prepubescent inklings —

Words still too rubbery

And uncertain

Clumsily pressed together

Like a rushed project

Past its final deadline;

Filled with superfluities 

And a noticeable panic

Hedging each line;

Almost every page 

Reveals the same 

Nervous writing

Baring the frustrations

Of a tired mind

Helplessly fettered

To a tortured ritual

Monday Morning Blues

Every Monday seems to be the same

Endless copies of banal monotony

That neither wind nor rain can change

A day breathed in heavy sighs

Dragging itself through the motions

Even the sun

Droops with a haggard indolence

Sagging over the clouds—

Grey with their own burdens

Full of the Monday morning blues

Ushering in another week

As the suited herd

File into their confined cubicles

While the clock watches

Scrutinizing the worth

Of their labor

And relief only comes

In the blur of minutes and seconds

Eclipsed in the commute back home;

Heels and shoes kicked off at the door

The stress and scum of the day

Washed away in hot streams

Down the drain

While the moon offers

An ephemeral slumber;

Precious hours

Before time resets

And the loop begins

All over again

Daydream Drooling

An idyll flowers
From the bud of a daydream
Where oblivion awaits
Beyond the obsidian trenches
Of a deep lethargy
Flushing out the fluorescent streams
Of office lights;
Shrinking the hectic clatter
Of trilling phones and clamoring voices
To diminutive drips of sound
Lost in the rippling spread
Of a purple pastel escape
Slipping through the seams
Of imagination
To collect in a pool
Trickling from her open mouth
At her desk

Total Paranoia

Their eyes follow her;
Parasites stuck to her back
Boring beneath the dermis
To burrow themselves
Within the gel-soft nucleus
Holding together the photons
Centering her world
Which spin and jerk;
Helter-skelter off its axis
Even after she’s long fled their sight

Those eyes
Bulge from the shadows
Blinking from the walls
With wispy lashes that droop
Over their soulless yet intent gaze;
So much scarier
Than the disembodied voices
That often whisper cold and eerie nothings
At her back
Because these eyes
Watch her with indiscernible scrutiny
Open to her own paranoid judgments
That leave her screaming and sobbing into the night
Begging the darkness
To leave her alone
Though it embraces her
With a quiet, unyielding sympathy

Fences

Office desks neatly arranged
With plastic dividers set between
Establishing a new formality;
A new etiquette to observe
Social distancing
Mirroring the fences often built
To protect property from idle trespass
But this demarcation goes beyond
Health guidelines
These new borders have been made
To keep me at arm’s length
Away from those
With an apparent dislike for me
Though I’m polite
And greet others
With a cordial smile
While stumbling through a language
That still awkwardly sits on my lips
I am disregarded many times
Pointedly ignored by those around me
Exchanging pleasantries
With an obvious, saccharine flair
To treat me as the unseen air
Making me aware of this curious disdain
And though I don’t mind
These deliberately forged fences
My only question
Is why?

Forage – Weekend Writing Prompt #204

In the spring of April

On a Sunday afternoon

Bathed in petrichor

After the clouds had emptied themselves

In the wordless language

Of souls blooming

In a timeless forage

To find belonging

The world seemed perfect

Resplendently refreshed

In the golden flush

Of the sun after the rain

And she soaked in the moment

Reclined in a rocking chair

Frail hands wrapped

Around a warm cup of cocoa

While the orphan boy

She had often fed

Told her of his new home

I really like the keyword for this weekend’s prompt and this is how the words flowed for me. Thanks SammiCox and happy Sunday everyone.✨

All That’s Left

Sometimes it’s all too quick
The way life whirls in a blur
A kaleidoscope spinning out of control
Carried on a cheetah’s back
In bursts of chaotic speed
Only winding down
For a gasp of calm
Rattled by frenetic gales
Shoving the world back into a frenzy;
Earthquakes
Riots
Carnage
Frustration and grief
Rent the air
Shattering the sun
In splinters of red
We’ve had enough!
We want it to end!
When will it end?
Our throats bled raw
Chords snapped and frayed
In sorrow and despair
Until there are no more tears
Left to cry
The doves
Are nowhere to be found
The olive branches
Have withered to brittle twigs
And all that’s left
Are the carcasses of hope
Rotting at our feet