Delusions of GrandeurGrubbsWriting
Work was done on sinking ships
In a different time, in a different place.
I had carved my name in the first piece
Of rubble to reach the ocean floor.
Hell was on the high seas,
And I went with the anchor
In the waters of what I thought
Might be my shallow grave.
Atlantis was my refuge,
For I swam with closed eyes
Out of fear of the salt.
I merely felt my way down.
I heard the howling and war
Just above my feet as I descended.
I felt the bubbles of my last breath
rush over me and back from whence they came.
I cared so little as my lungs screamed,
And the pressure crushed my being.
The anchor swam for me as submerged tides
Carried my blind way down.
Had I let go, I might have
swam away from Hell,
Though I feared one journey
more than the other.
I think I will awaken
I think I shall live
I think I can dwell
In Atlantis, should it be found.
RavenThe raven would not say my name -Scarlettletters
only flutter its wing
and settle on the branch.
I watched its cockle eye
study me and the rooftops
that sang of autumn.
Leaves swirled in the wires
as the air blisterd around me
and I could feel myself
falling once again -
somewhere the light
would still remember me.
Broken WatchHope was killing me every day,DraganTheMighty
so I threw my broken watch to the sea.
Since then I wake drowning every night,
at the same hour it had stopped ticking.
Fairytale of the ChoirGrubbsWriting
There is a special place,
Outside of the broadest wasteland,
Sought through the cylinder
of an old revolver.
Have you heard the choirs of the dunes,
And how their praise echoes off of shifting slopes,
molded by merciless winds?
Have you felt the thunder of those hauntings?
How chilling the thought that I
have only heard these things,
in where I am disoriented by my thirsts
and my revolver is closed-minded.
This place is strange.
I've known it only in the back of my mind,
Through a peculiar hell of idea,
Whispered like a bedtime story.
Darkness TakingI'm laid on a large field of blue grass.Fesbraa
It's strange, the texture, not the color.
Feels like scales, fish scales. Wet, sticky.
But they smell really good.
I feel good, I feel safe, even when the sky is gray.
Filled with storm clouds, waving.
The grass moves in the same rhythm, like a dance.
It's all so peaceful. Even when the lightning strikes the ground.
Even when the grass starts to burn.
Even when I'm surrounded by the fire.
When the flames starts too lick my skin.
It feels good.
It feels like love. Like the skin of a woman.
A fragile flower.
Red and soft.
Pouring all over. Like wine.
When I took over control again there was nothing to do, only see, watch. She was dying. Breathing slowly and every time less air would enter her lungs. She would look at me? or the ceiling? I would never know. But her eyes would look deep into the sky, like they could see through another dimension. Like they could realize the travel she was about to take.
Then, suddenly. S