A collection of poems bound into a fluffy rabbit pelt book...
Poetry for Gan-Erdene
You ask I try at writing
and share with you in reading
Though I may be good with speaking
from stories passed down, repeating
I fear my hands are shaking
My soft tongue's no good with meaning
Fara
The cold bites
My gaze pure white
My hands numb to grasp
My feet like rocks, snow slow
Peak of High Isle marks mid way
Past that, the stars to be read
Pale Steed walks close but
A snake bites tail
Locked behind key
The
snake bites
And begs for
change to free it
beneath lies the
key to
leave
The Past
Buried in a little barrow
lies flowers, brittle bone and marrow
Stars twinkle up above
The final sight for those beloved
Harrow! Snow and rocks with babies buried
now dug out with rescue hurried
Baijiu and Gimlet
One shot, two drinks, three people
with family, regret, and steeples
To the old and young, the large and small
the Spire wears thin. That is its pitfall
For weathered storms and creaky bark,
I fear my own past is more like a lark
The pains I left are light to compare
With astrolabes and oaths to declare
Too easy to read, it's not hard to tell
I'm seeking trouble, a life that's unwell
Matriarch
Two warriors in the pit, bloodied and bruised
Half-Broken
Half-Mad
Half-Conscious
The glee on their face, it looks familiar,
Like soft coos, long scoldings, and dinner
Glittered dresses all stumbling on stage
Half-Men
Half-Maiden
Half-Flame
Their beauty and strength, it brings me somewhere
To candle lit halls and sports under stars
In the language that one may speak, there is a name
Half-Dialect
Half-Accent
Half-Distance
It goes something like Eejee, Ooka, and Mama
Half-Warrior
Half-Beauty
Half-Speech
I know that is my Ana
Haunting
I sleep on the floor, an ear against boards
And in the night, I hear an old chord
In the wind, a voice can't be ignored
that whispers of things I can't bear to record
A Ditch
I find myself falling
into a dark place
thats grimy and dank
pitch black and quite rank
I find I'm weighed down
my burdens too heavy
Now sore and aching,
to climb is backbreaking
I fear that I'm stuck
trapped in my own grave
To die of starvation
before I meet my damnation
Between you and me
When it comes to love and lust, my cards can go bust
While over rum and mead, I don't have a lead
I know not your face, not your skin, not your past
Only your writing, your blood, and your bash
Your heart and your eyes, Those I can't understand
Leaves me blind, even with words in my hand
I wish you could see, the you inside me
and I wish I could meet, the you that you see
Not even as lovers to lust over each other
Simply as friends that may like one another
Stone Cold Figure
There was once a young child who was raised by a statue
that stood firm while weathering the harshest of storms
and figured a leader representing great virtue
But too tough was stone for youth to conform
The statue stood proudly, revered as a monument
As passersby pitied a child by its base
Had they been born stone family'd be a compliment
But instead they'd grown softer in seek of embrace
They sunk into granite, the arms of their mother
As it stood still its gaze carved far away
For if the stone broke the poor child would be smothered
and so the child melted for love to give way
Flesh
Cold nights are warmed by the heat of passion
in a room where the air is heavy and stale
The smell of sweat and the taste of spit
It pulls away the face of your partner
Their name is silent
There's no space in your throat
What did you want more than their body?
More than their name?
More than their face?
The Whale
White
eyes replace
ruby red gaze.
Body broken, cut, bones
shattered under skin. Worse yet
shadows in your vision. Looming large
Blinding the smell of burnt cinnamon and
left lost, dazed, confused, and angry. Ill prepared
nobody knew it would end like this. Cooped up
in a tent by a box with a petrified finger.
An octopus named Averie, a servant of the whale, took five
people. Nyree, a pale giant, she is the curse giver, hand forced
by her mother. Not to be trusted. People turned into liquid, battered by
shells, slammed by tentacles. What can you do in a sea full
of pains, visions, and membrane crawling over your skin. Come home
to be mended, carried to your bed and washed of
blood and agony. I'll sit by your side to
hold your hand and say I'm here. I won't
eat, nor sleep, nor leave your side,
not until I know you're better.
Not until this curse lifts.
Heavy is the weight
of my heart,
my head,
and my
eyes.
Untitled Poem - Written in Greatling Runes
Jealousy hangs in the back of my throat
A cloying feeling that tastes sweet like rum and cookies
A sickly sensation that feels like blood and bruising
Fables fuck. What is wrong with me?
It's almost depraved, desperate, plain sad
I want you to look at me
The same way you look at them
With bloodlust, kindness, and affection
I want your touch
In the same way you want to touch them
With the rage and hammer you cling to
I want your name
One that only I can use
With some sort of praise and affection
I want you
Why does love grow stronger
when I don't want it?
Autumn
The seasons are a fickle thing
Bringing heatwaves and storms alike
Now the air is calm, breeze slowly chilling
And all I see is red upon a lark
Now in my bag lies a heavy coat
Still burdensome, too soon to unfold
But soon the red will turn to white
And the warmth of home I'll carry on
Warmth
Empty beds, cold floors, and quiet homes.
In my mind both waking and asleep
I think of the things I wish to hold dear
The hand of the blind, scarred, and cursed
and to share with them a momentary rest
Soft laughs, good food, and gentle touches
Sacrifice
A blade too large to wield, a heart too heavy to love, streaming tears and screaming matches
To let go and live free comes with great cost
Hair too long to tame, a pack too heavy to bear, wandering boots and greener pastures
To travel and find purpose comes with many burdens
I switch to bows, snip most of my mane, and leave almost all I could behind
But there are some things I'll still choose to carry
I couldn't possibly forget where I came from
Ouroborous
Snakeskins form into knots
A tight ball with little give
Writhing as it reaches to swallow it's own tail
What could be done to end a cycle when it begins anew?
A new shirt, a new book
a new home, a new name
The same trek, and breakfast,
and work, and thoughts
All habits that linger like a haunting old whisper
The urge to pull another body, writhing with their flesh
To look out into the distance and tug oneself away
To stare down the edge of an abyss frozen in contemplation
To feel knots forming in your gut
Everything is different, yet nothing has changed
Untitled Story
You lie beneath a bed of snow, cheeks flushed and feeling hot. Deafened by whipping winds, blinded by your icy lashes, and skin blackened by the coming winter. You think for sure that this is how you die, lonely in the middle of a blizzard.
And yet you hear a voice call out over the storm, speaking in a tongue you do not know but you understand every word of. You feel it is your mother, you know she misses you. She promises to embrace you, hold you close and keep you warm. She'll even sing a song just like she used to when you were a baby...
In the white wasteland you can see her between blinks, skinny and tall as she reaches out with blue fingers. Her complexion is frozen solid, ice cracking and sloughing off her body before she touches you. When she holds you, it's like skin is almost burning, hands suddenly thick and fatty as you are cradled like a baby. You feel so small, so helpess, so young. And she does sing you a lullaby but it's the song goes on forever. You feel no peace, no solace, no rest.
The light of dawn cuts through the blizzard like a knife, the warmth of the sun bringing feeling back into your flesh. As memories of the night come to you, you know a few things. You didn't die, you didn't fall asleep, and you didn't meet your mother. Despite it all your blood runs cold as you knew that you were spoken to, that you were held, and that you were not alone.
