Poetry-Thing Thursday: Death Genus

Lie to me,
about the future’s culmination.
Speak the words,
of endless exultation.
Then inject me,
with Death’s overt-stimulation.

‘Cause I am,
running out of words.
And you have,
betrayed all the herds,
of woman and man,
and set fire to the birds.

There will be,
forever no more singing.
Sounds of fire,
forever to be ringing,
’cause our fate,
time is ever-bringing.

If I had,
perhaps one more life,
to get along with,
all of this strife,
Perhaps I’d learn,
to take away your knife.

But you have,
buried it within me.
And the blood,
is pooling I can see.
My life will fade,
soon just like we.

Collapsed to my knees
I beg your forgiveness,
for having failed,
to show you more than this,
but I understand,
more than am remiss.

So much has,
come and gone between us,
that any distance,
feels like Earth to Venus.
So inject me,
with a dose of Death-Genus

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Forever To A Sigh

The creature is emerging
from its long respite.
The creature it is waking,
having slumbered a long night.

And now with daylight,
a goal in its sight,
it will labor,
until the job is done right.

An hour.
a day.
A whole month of May.
It matters not,
so long as it,
has its way.

It had a vision,
spawned of a fevered dream,
to coerce reality,
restitch its seam.

Whether it does or nigh,
depends on the creature;
its lasting high.
For fevered dreams are brutal–
can build forever to a sigh.

Sit with me a moment, child,
for my bones are old and numb,
my gums at-rot from rum,
and my dreams are all long gone.

Sit with me and listen,
for I’ve seen the rising sun,
felt the barrels of life’s gun,
and tallied my last sum.

Lean close and let me whisper,
my tale’s a fading ember,
born of blood and timber,
that’s uttered in a whimper,

For you see it is no secret,
that magick, love, and regret,
come in equal measure,
leave one a little lesser.

But at our end we’re equal,
evened by death’s steeple,
no matter our home-people.
we live and die, good or evil.

So sit with me a moment, child,
and prepare to take my place,
for my time has come and gone,
leaving only lines in space.

Smoke curls around me,
drifts toward the window.
I take hits as I see,
it swirling in limbo.

An ember glows through darkness.
Shadows flare like caricatures on my face.
I exhale as all this,
is forced on a current from this place.

Like smoke I whirl and weave.
Through space and time.
Born to deceive.
Fight and die for the dime.

Still I sit,
at odds with fate,
ever ready for another hit,
and dinner, with death, for a date.

There is no compulsion,
greater than man’s lust.
No matter his revulsion,
at betraying those whom have his trust.

So wax philosophical, folk.
Or wane like a falling moon.
Or carry on the wind like smoke.
Whatever you be,
just be it soon.