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[Loki Wyrd]

A gross and grisly beard

Is worn across your face,

Shows your crooked smile,

And rustles with warm laughter

You seldom show the world;

Though I can see it in your eyes

That you would hide behind curtains.

 

May you see it, too:

When the chill of your empty home

Lights upon your countenance,

And the small hours of the night

Seem cruel in their length.

See it well;

And know you're not alone.

[Loki Wyrd]

On tiptoes, I lean forward.

Balanced on the edge of the chair,

Reaching to the top shelf.

Palm down, gliding through the dust:

I know it's up there;

Though sight is relegated to my fingertips.

Fingers like the limbs of an insect,

I now find scuttering with a purpose.

But all I pull back is a hand,

Covered in dust like the jacket of a long forgotten book.

My head fills with a sneeze,

My mouth with a bitter taste;

So I leave my perch, in favor of despair.

Edited January 6, 2005 by Loki Wyrd

[Peredhil]

Nice imagery.

Somehow, in the small hours of the morning, a well-lit home seems coldest and emptiest.

Brrr.

 

I'm not sure in this case that not being alone is a Good thing or a Bad thing though...

[Tasslehoff]

Good Poem Loki. Its very descriptive. I really like the part:

Fingers like the limbs of an insect

...Made me think his fingers all turned into little bugs or something..

 

 

[sweetnightmare]

Wow, i really like this, it seems to explain to clearly... the imagry is good yes, the meaning or maybe the way you feel, "On tiptoes, I lean Forward" i like that. It just means so much in few words.

 

[Loki Wyrd]

Peredhil: It all depends on the way you look at it.

 

Tasslehoff & sweetnightmare: Thanks for your comments. It always makes me feel all warm and tingly inside to hear from those outside of my head.

[Loki Wyrd]

This one comes from an inkblot of sorts--it was on the cover of my notebook I was writing in at the time. This is what I saw...

 

 

 

The extra eye gives the pumpkin a smile.

And though he's rotting, he sprouted an arm

Made of stick; with a sleeve much too long,

To cover his misgivings:

He's growing in all the wrong places;

And he's starting to miss pieces

That have launched into space.

His smile's met the ground,

Shifting with his face

To something malevolent.

Edited January 6, 2005 by Loki Wyrd

[Loki Wyrd]

Don't tell me what, if only you would describe it.

I rollover onto my side, on the edge of the bed;

A crevice formed between that and the wall.

My breath forcing up the chill already present.

Hopefully, my hand is proferred into the dark,

As I imagine looking over the side into the unknown;

Unwilling to open my eyes or stir from my place,

For fear of losing grip of something yet uncertain.

Your voice can take me anywhere; if only you would--

Give me something to look upon, to touch, smell, or taste.

[Loki Wyrd]

You had to die so that someone would remember you;

Therein lies the tragedy.

I wonder why it is they weep:

To act a part, or to be too late for you?

 

Either way, their tears fall for you--

I think it might be the music that they play.

But when fallen, they seek no real change,

Like rain in a wasteland, or the taste of the dirt to you.

 

Here lies no one special,

To be forgotten once again.

And I cry.

Edited January 8, 2005 by Loki Wyrd

[Loki Wyrd]

I began to cut my hair,

For no other reason then it was there.

Golden locks fell in the sink,

Curls and waves around my feet.

Fro and to they followed you,

Down to somewhere I once knew;

 

Though I'd no longer than my hair,

With it henceforth scattered everywhere.

The bodies littering a battlefield,

Writhing and still refusing to yield;

And also an ocean, rising only to fall,

Or the treacherous vines swallowing the jungle.

 

I, too, am invoked into its entwinement,

Recalling to me my memory, with this slight bent:

I never did cut my hair.

Was it all but a nightmare?

[Loki Wyrd]

Nothing else matters

For a burning instant:

The red glow of the stove top

Captivates the hostage audience.

The hand engulfing my wrist isn't there,

Only a biting at my fingertips

That sinks into my bone

And swims through my blood,

Omnipresent.

 

Not knowing what I did;

Neither caring nor feeling regret,

Only insolence and a smile.

[Loki Wyrd]

Pinings of the disenfranchised

Waiting for a voice

Are stamped out in bare footprints

Searching for a choice

Amongst them in the dearth

Clouds of dust kick up into the air

Denied the breath to breathe it

They curse it in despair

[Ayshela]

you know.. if i didn't know better i'd think you were picking images from my dreams and writing them here. eerie.

 

you stopped me dead in my tracks on one line in each of these:

Only a biting at my fingertips

having contemplated confusions of hot/sharp pain recognitions, this caught me with a smile and nod.

and..

Denied the breath to breathe it

beautifully, precisely, elegantly captured and handed over whole.