[x]

TalonsI rake my talons along the wall;
sharpening, readying,
so when I finally reach that light
at the end of the long tunnel,
I can cut the wire
and free the common truth of night.

It'll serve you well to prepare yourself
for the fall of the incandescent storm.
The torrents will drown out the sun,
the winds will howl as if you didn't matter,
and if you're not down when it hits,
then you'll be blasted down.
You'll find yourself trapped
right beneath the sky
as Paradise itself collapses
and rains burning fractals
upon the innocents around you.
And the mosaic that will form
from the fire,
and the cobalt,
and the struggle,
will si

Bellwether CurveThe handwritten footnotes
on either of my palms reads:
'our mouths are exits;
our ears are entrances.'

Dog-mark the pages
and highlight the words;
this lesson is rigged
and I have yet to learn
the grading curve
on a heart.

When we speak together
we listen separate
for where each other
is on the learning curve
and lean with the gradation
when we're inclined
to let ourselves
not know better.

Let's connect the dots
and plot the angle between us
before the curve gets too steep
and I find myself stuck
where x and y meet.

American bastard sonnetAncestral roads lit by a distant flame,
and glowing in the haunting moonlight's trill,
do fade into the brush of autumn's mane,
no longer bright, but overgrown and still.

The iron tips, long planted in the field,
bring forth a twisting crop of staggered dreams,
and sons who toil endless, without shield
'neath harsher skies that match the sickle's gleam.

Although my fathers past did not record
their names, their deeds, their songs for me to know,
I've still the soul of one who bears a sword;
the harvest suits me not, so forth I'll go.

Though I have never heard your words aloud,
I swear to you that I will make you proud.

lithemy flannel
knits like fingers round
your own as you break the
fabric to release my skin.
each button, a lock
on my virginity, cuts open
with your eager-meager
hands--
nails nibbled into
half moons on your most nervous day,
and the callous skin that holds your habit
withers and taughts like wood sticking
from a bush; they
catch on my chest;
each breath--
your lips, a barrel, press my body
as if it were a doe caught by the
gun of wilderness
(so easy to
penetrate)
and i fall into the crash of
you, into the braid
of your body
wrapping my own.

your entitlementsgolden hour lovers
in lieu, lament
on essence of opiate summers
upon wet roads of a subterranean pandora
Ophelia with crimson epiphanies
senses the grey blaze tides
of trepidation--
to you, bereaved orphan,
windows of lost causes and solemn mantras
to her
seas of callous ether,
the birth of struggle,
the primordial existence,
unchanging and starved of
the patterns of wisdom

County LinesFog swallows the corn,
an unlit farmhouse eaten;
stars shine scarce
in the dark heather sky,
inconsequential fires.

Dim lamps guide the road,
but each creates
a separate jaundiced clarity:
sight and blindness passing
in fewer frames per second,
confused Vaudeville captures.

Your eyes look blue tonight
when I can see them;
shadows fill your mouth and
fine lines.

a poemIF WE WERE TO ERODE
THE BREAST OF LAND INTO THE OCEAN,
BELOW THE CUSP OF SURFACE
WHAT WOULD BE LEFT?
WHERE
WOULD WE SWIM?
AND WOULD YOU JOIN ME
AS I'D TAKE MY SEAT
ON THE THRONE
OF THE MEANDERED BASIN;
YOU AND I COULD SPEND OUR
DAYS SINGING MUSICALS
TO THE FISH,
BREATHING THROUGH OUR THROATS
AND COALESCING OUR FINS
(HOW LOVELY WE COULD BE
HOW SICK YOU AND ME)

coldi would just like to note that i am made up of nothing
but needles, and if you do not
take care to not touch
i will prick you and watch
as the blood falls from
your fingertips
and i will take the red ribbon
of your body and sew it
into a sweater for me to wear
when winter makes its round
i don't want to be too
cold, you see
and lately i've been finding
it necessary to siphon the
warmth i need from others
whether it costly
or free

perspectivewe peek out our basement windows and
decide the world is so mean and so tall.
once i perched on the shingles and discovered
birds' reason for singing: optimism

it's not exactly like pouring over the top and bottom
of a drinking glass, but i can't argue
that some of us sparkle inside
while others are vacant or shattered: pessimism

life spewing from the underground leaves my boxes
in storage; i hoard trivia and sonatinas
i fear the rats bedded in the corners
because they chew my yellowed memories through: realism

i plod up uncarpeted stairs on legs defined by fatigue
and make fairy dust out of chimney soot.
flight and victory are

ScipioLight

Softly falling light
The worst kind of honesty
Pure, objective, raw
Neutral, if only because it's looking back
Remembering for the sake of itself
With the perfect clarity of ragged eyes
Refusing sleep for far too long
Like a typo that gets left in because it works
Or a motion repeated because the muscles know the script
Or a rain that caresses the skin yet excites nothing
Hollow and truthful
It just is
It's enough to inspire hatred
Almost enough to elicit a cry,
But not quite
Because you know it can't listen
Wouldn't hear you
Couldn't appreciate--
Couldn't savor it
Like the fall of Carthage in a single day
Or the fi

Desert haikuThere's no one out here.
Just me, the mirages, and –
my savior complex.

You Have Me MistakenYou have me mistaken.

I am not her co-conspirator,
violently stabbing
the bloodied shapes
of royal dreams
both far and near across the kingdom
while the rest of you sleep.

I admit,
I was her friend.
She'd often look out at the world
through the bars on her window
and tell me what she saw.

She'd turn to me
with those bright eyes
and say, pointing,
"Let's go there!"

And who was I to stop her from dreaming?

I promised her that one day we would.
I crossed my heart and hoped to die.

Even as I watched the hangman approaching,
even as they tore me from her arms,
even as I felt the rope tightening,
I promised her, and still do.

things to whisper into the ears of the restlessbreathe
try not to forget
to
breathe
swallow
sometimes saliva is
drowning
words housed in your mouth
pregnant, expecting the right opportunity
to birth
feelings
it
is
pain-
ful
still
breathe
try not to forget
to
breathe
and
cry
don't be ashamed of blurred, red eyes
how do you think oceans were made?
god cries too
then
b r e a t h e s
life once more
into the lungs
now
sleep
I am tired
can only be said so many times now
sleep
and I will kiss your forehead
and I will kiss you goodnight.

Like Cartoon LoversHe strums his guitar
outside the art shop, waiting
for her as he sings
about lost country roads
and crucified thieves
finding redemption,
his mucked boots scuffing
the sidewalk.

She comes out
during her smoke break—
skirt fluttering about her legs,
head haloed by a red bandana,
sandled feet displaying
a pentagram tattoo
above her toes.

Her fingers go to the beads
around her neck and slip them
between her teeth, rolling
them with her tongue,
her lips curving into
a slanted smile.

He stops strumming,
and they head to the back
of the shop.

His kisses fill her up.
Bubbles erupt inside at
the sound of his Southern drawl
as he te

Pen and Rasashe met an ink-stained boy
stories sunk in his skin
e-y-e-s above constantly
popped knuckles, an anchor
on his cheek, small thing weighed
heavy below his half-closed lids
loud is an angry dog barked [with I'll be gone as a collar along
over his heart tense rapscallion neck]
her illustrated man was strumming a guitar
in a quiet parking lot, she toured (with hands clasped behind her body
this living museum, his colorful past leaning forward)
she studied his graffiti-self from a distance

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Twenty-One RoundsDream torn,
"Rare form,"
notch-bone,
whetstone,
soles lock,
turn, drop,
twenty-one rounds.

Wrist-shatter,
knife-clatter,
grind-nose,
"Night shows,"
jackal-smile,
broken tile,
twenty-one rounds.

Fall-breaker,
ring-taker,
cursing fire,
ripped asunder,
bobbing, weaving,
leaving nothing,
twenty-one rounds.

Ghost StoriesMy earliest memories are of Mom crying over me, and of you lurking above her. It's an extrasensory kind of fear: both profane and sublime. You can't truly see it, and you can't pin it down. Therefore it surrounds and suffocates you. Man versus nature, man versus fate, man versus sire; call it what you will. Patient and bitter, you're a spider waiting in a blackened forest. You stalk behind our dreams with anxious hooks; always watching, baiting us, hating us, dragging us apart slowly and cautiously, bisecting us with your subtle scalpel-smiles. One-by-one you turn us away from each other, forcing us to face you and the grotesque truth of what

Dog Days of SummerThe city is a raw, open carcass.
I rip into it with my teeth,
tools and weapons alike.
We are bred from our surroundings;
I was born in August,
the son of Sirius and Sol.

Let me tell you what it is to be brought low:
it is a streamlined form of hatred,
to awake in unrelenting heat,
shoved down among vulgarities, drifting
as their glares catch you at every corner.
Is he a threat?
You can watch them drag their ribs through the dust
while you greedily tear into your scraps
behind cooking temple-blocks
(not the scraps they threw at you,
but the ones you fought for).
You're vicious by nature,
but wary by choice.

Asphalt ignites with my stride
as

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No Sympathy for Devils

by ~Sigma-Echo-Seven, May 1, 2012, 2:41:39 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

No sympathy for devils.
Not for them, or us.

You know what we are.
You can see it in our nature,
Indivisible from our truest form.

          My breath portends brutality.

Violence has always composed our core.
To deny it would be to deny our heritage.

          I must harness my birthright.

Judge me not
By the temperament of my voice,
Or the iron in my eyes,
But by the will with which I fight.
Your pity is an unwelcome crutch.
I refuse it.

          Do not question our nobility.

We wage war on many fronts,
But our enemy is singular.
We have seen him.

          We know him well.

Our lives will be the final offering.
We'll build the altar ourselves.
No, we don't need your help,

          But you may sharpen the knife, if you wish.

No Sympathy for Devilsby ~Sigma-Echo-Seven

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

I initially wrote this with the batarians in mind, but I can see how it could work for Javik and the protheans as well. The krogan aren't out of the question either.

I think knowledge of one's purpose is to be admired, even if that purpose is fighting. No, you know what? Especially if that purpose is fighting.

*Hfeather53 Oct 27, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

"My breath portends brutality."

*insert wistful sigh here* <3

~Sigma-Echo-Seven Oct 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

*Hfeather53 Oct 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

My pleasure.

~Igike May 1, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

VERY well done

~Sigma-Echo-Seven Jul 13, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

~Igike Jul 13, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

no problem

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No Sympathy for Devils

No Sympathy for Devilsby ~Sigma-Echo-Seven

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