Salem moon rises
Shrieking pleas for help subside
Witches once accused
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.
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)
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)
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)