The past lives I used to dream…
Moon bitten, lost in lunacy

I don’t hear it telling you
That you’re the worst God’s given breath
There’s nothing alive left in me
My essence is dried up flesh

Buy me tears; buy me a beating
All the more sweet for distracting me
They hover low; I watch the angels thieve my wings
And off they go, dragging their feet

Now I am as bitter and old
As the death curl of a blackened rose
Ever there, as the gripping rope
Of a suffocating smoke

The ghost of a stolen soul
Away, in cold kisses blown, I go


This is one of the new ones I’ve written. Maybe I’m getting worse or maybe I’m just not getting any better, either way I sort of like this one. It sounds different to me and that’s what I’m trying to go for.


1 Comment

Filed under Art, Death, personal, poems, poetry, Thoughts

One response to “Withered

  1. I really like this one as well. The whole thing paints this picture for me—in fact, I would very much encourage you to try and draw this. I have this vision in my head of angels swooping down onto people, ripping off their wings…kind of barbaric, actually, but nonetheless something I would definitely like to see. ;)

    The title. I’ve been sitting here trying to think of something. The only one I’ve come up with is “Withered”, both because of the rose comparison and the idea of losing one’s wings or soul. It leaves behind nothing but a shell I guess, a husk, something decayed and withered. But I don’t know. You will probably come up with something more suitable, so don’t listen to me.

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