Frustration

You never quit, do you?
I admire that in some people,
The stubborn will that seems to be completely absent
In the generally dispassionate person in the back
Who are bored with eating and breathing-
Those are the sort of people who look at the successful ones
Ahead of them, and loathe them intensely because they have not
Strength to rise up against sloth and ignorance and fear to
Step out of the norm, for Christ's sake!

Just Before Death

Down in the depths of darkness,
Chained to an iron wall,
Naked, I wept
Then I heard her, a soft, trickling murmur,
A whisper, a word, "promises you give"
As the Great Bard has sung before
In a stream of love and sadness
A ray of light struck from a crystal sphere
To push away the sorrow and pain and regret and shame and agony and death
Leaving nothing but peace

But then her voice leaves,
And her shadow crumbles into the murky dust
That floats in drifts to the tiny window
Through which rain and mud are thrown by God and man
Leaving me covered in a fine layer of silt,
To suffocate under eternity

The chains have rusted and blow away,
Burnt shards of bone piled outside the tiny window
The darkness swept clean of everything
Everything but the darkness

Unloved

Her hair fell
Across her back, Gossamer tumbled
Effortlessly, her hair clouded in my face
Dreamily I kissed her
Hair, dancing the cold, autumn breeze,
A bit of warmth cleansing with
Waves of silken, neatly

Folded, wire threads scraped my face like
A single, iron hand struck me across
My mouth bled, my tears
Crashing into the dirty
Fingers clawed open my throat, spilling
Into a crimson puddle, I sank, collapsed,
Unloved

Um, sorry...

Sorry about my last post. I most likely will not carry it out.

Call to Arms

I hereby swear by whatever gods of literature there may be that if all BIMA 2008 writers do not post at least one thing by midnight, January 31st, I will myself will delete every post that I myself added to this blog. So I plead with all BIMA 2008 writers, with Ethan, and with Jon: PLEASE POST SOMETHING SOON!

I know that I am whistling in the dark when I ask all 2008 BIMA writers to write or comment at least once before the New Year. If you do not, I will: personally hunt down every single one of you and methodically disembowl you, starting from the feet and working my way up; throw your remains to the whale that ate Jonah; and then, after God stones me to death, I will overhear the angels saying, "Hmm...I wonder what would have happenned to the BIMA 2008 writers if they had posted regularly and if Abbie had not been a hypocrite about the matter."

In the Wind

I feel the stars weeping salty tears from the heavens.
I feel the the wind blowing dust in my eyes.
Blinded and torn and lamenting my family
My lover now gone, my soul is reborn.

Heavenly light from the skies is darkened and dimmed.
The stone cities crumble beneath the dark waves.
Haunted and bleeding, the phoenix flies south again.
Can my soul not do the soul as that bird?

I grieve as I wander through forest so black and cold,
Through trees long since burnt, but again they did rise,
And yet the proud mortals cut them down in shame again.
Fall on your swords, fly your banners and cry!

My cloak of mourning now billows in a sudden breeze,
Nay not a breeze, but the wind from the fire,
A fire now absent, only in the wind remains
A force strong enough to toss me about.

I push back against the wind, weak mortal that am.
Fall I in the dust, never again to rise.
Do not find the wind; let it fill you with laughter
The laughter you sing just before you die.

I lie here in wait for the approach of Death.
He does not come yet, and I make for to rise.
But there in the distance, his black cloak soaring so high,
I see him, and I lay my head down to die.