Witch’s Brew (An Annual Feast)

 Witch’s brew, witch’s brew,
 Made from kids all turned to stew.
 Lots of bite and chewy bits,
 Flavoured lice and angry zits.
 What a treat for Halloween,
 A juicy bit of some young teen.
 I can’t believe but once a year
 Is all we get to make kids fear!



There was a hand
 On the end of an arm,
 Whose fingers gripped;
 Whose fingers grasped,
 With nails filed to points
 And dipped in liquid crimson.
 They tore:
 I screamed;
 They tightened:
 I choked;
 They scythed:
 I hurt,
 And felt a cold oblivion claw at me.
 I imagined them extinguishing all that I was,
 All I had been, and ever would.
 The hand was my own;
 The fingers my heritage,
 And I deserved nothing less.


 She shone, a pearl unveiled to all
 With towers of opalescent hue
 And streets of marble inlay
 She was a jewel that shone too bright
 For in their vanity, their vain indifference
 The Atlanteans incurred the wrath of the Gods
 Not only had they slandered the Imperium
 They had forgotten where they came from
 The crime: unforgivable
 The sentence: death
 Condemned to worse than annihilation
 Their seed was to be lost to time
 But the Gods in their own haughty retort
 Made the same mistake as the Atlanteans
 The result bringing Atlantis immortality
 So in the end the city was made myth
 Its citizens legends
 They achieved the unachievable
 If only we could find them to tell them

 (Image courtesy of firedudewraith on deviantart.com)

Gaia’s Children

 She stems from the beginning of time
 That place beyond places
 A gathering of all that first was made life
 Throughout eternity, she has nurtured
 Resided over dreams, presided of sentience
 She is Gaia; Earth; home, she is ours
 And yet we hurt her, harm her
 What kind of children are we?

 (Image courtesy earthobservatory.nasa.gov)

Crying Eyes

 He watched me through the mirror. I eyed him back. He was not me: different hair, nose, lips, but those eyes, those eyes. They observed me with a carefree lack of discipline that I once knew. There was a humour to them that I recognised, a sneering disinterest. They blinked in time with my own, moved with my own, rolled with my own and I knew they were my own. Another me mocked all that I was and all that I could have been. It enraged me.
 After I smashed the mirror, broke it into a spider’s web of glass shards, the eyes were still my own. The only difference was that they weren’t crying.

 (Image courtesy of Reno-Art on deviantart.com)