Myself is not a thing to love at all.
The voices in the void, I hear them all.

Each grinding scream and arid, feral call.
They stream across my heart, a dire pall.

At every side, a cold, unfeeling wall.
The ages scour dreams and slowly crawl.

The world is wide, and I am very small.
My stars are pitch, and smoke, as heavens fall.

Dry tears within the eyes, concealing gall.
A mind of blight at every stair and hall.

A battered hope, a slowly dying ball.
Myself is not a thing to love at all.


Clasped in silver, dark, descending.
Sinking slow, toward sleep unending.
Scented fingers kiss my heart, but there’s no power to restore.
There’s the blessed and blighted door.
Kiss and song and sunrise fading.
Sinking once to rise no more


Mine own invention mocks me.
“How blessed are loveless.”
Each whispers dire warnings:
“All love is but in vain.
For any love is vain.”
These outpourings of spirit,
are echoes of my pain.

“But she,” I say, “is different.
I think that I can feel it. “
“How often is that anthem,
engraved upon the page?
Engraved upon your page?
May this rhyme better warn you,
in some dark, future age.”

Enclosed in Winter, bitter April rains,

dance heavily upon the face of Spring,

who met the world in spite of all our pains.

The flower weeps that used to shine and sing.


Cruel words and crueler deeds have torn her heart,

which once with joy and gentle song did swell.

He stole a glance, a kiss, then dodged with art.

So all her world’s collapsed to form one Hell.


I’m left to clasp my joy and wipe her tears,

and hope this is the last she’ll know of pain.

To light her soul. To chase away her fears,

and keep the watch lest he return again.


Cruel is the hand that bids a human heart,

“come forth” that it might tear the thing apart.

We’re Back!

We’ve been gone for some time but we’re returning with new poems, new polls, new authors and new contests. We’re very excited to welcome everyone back.


As I sit here,

staring at this page,

at posibility,

at nothing,

rattling in its cage,

is an idea,

a hope,

a place to far to go.

The page wants to know,

but I’m not telling.

How like a rose twice blessed with love and care,

my Springtime blooms beneath her mother’s arms.

Unknowing yet of all the world must bear.

Still kept from temptful Sin, his wiles and charms.


New gurgles trip and stumble from her lips.

She rises, steps and crashes with delight,

for all’s a wonder on her little trips,

the world’s made new before her precious sight.


And yet one day I weep to think she’ll find,

beyond the fabled waters and the wild,

the truth I’ve hid away, the world’s unkind.

So Heaven keep my light-adoring child.


Behold a miracle and watch her grow.

Innocent now, but someday she must know.


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