Sobre

So sweetly the crowd utters the word of "cry". They who know too well of this act. Open arms for the souls long gone But bound by their torment to a plain. Enveloped in the hand of time And safe from His corrosion, It welcomes broken hearts with hungry teeth. Flooded by the refugees of life's trifles, It marks their number on the crowns they weave. Its winds arrive on albatross, Oh, what a sight it is! Inhabitants all dressed so mourn, Salty scents to fill the air. Enchanted eyes regard the rain; They cannot see beyond its curtain. As it cascades from above to below To quench the isles' screaming mouth, Those trapped here

I dream in greatness, without regret or despare. I see the world as I wish I could live it, and I refuse the realities before me. There are no wrongs or rights in my eyes, only the blurry lines in-between that run like make-up in the rain. The strike of a hand on a cheek is never louder than the silence that follows the bang of a bullet. When someone bleeds, I see them as they must be--whole, lost, and welcoming the discrepancies of the new day. I fall through the existential cracks like a dime in a drain's grate. My fist will break down the dreams of the air I breathe in, and every day I grow stronger and weaker in both rhythm and powe

Despite my resting place At the foot of your pedistal The alure you hold in the thing That is your face Is enough to wake these weary bones And aching, make them crawl The latent licking --A tongue on a hungry mouth Brings my thoughts (startling) To a halt As all my breath runs out Cunning in the unspoke way You make my steps a cadence The rippling, "tap, tap, tip-tap, tip" Is (for a moment) the spell upon The silent day And as you beckon me hither With the silken hum of The well spun electric fence I hear it--lingering there: "Tap, tap, tip-tap, tip."

The Death of Ether By M J Hylen Sliding out from your ivory shell, eyes and bones still weak from your brief respite, your lift your wings—thin as the skins beneath eggs—and cast off the sand that settles on your back like fine dust. A hide of shale, a mane of straw, unnatural, inhuman façade. Eyes made from steel and ink flit awake, full of first breaths and lights. Your are alive again. A pilgrimage is made, struggling first out of the briny foam that drags at you with iron grip. Then into a forest of bladed stone—black and spire-like as they cut at your flesh like claws. Each reaches at the infinite dregs of the sto