©2023 michael raven
is it madness
to want something
more than this?
winter wind whistles
at the keyhole
and the barest ember
of faith flickers
in the night
words | spirit
©2023 michael raven
is it madness
to want something
more than this?
winter wind whistles
at the keyhole
and the barest ember
of faith flickers
in the night
©2023 michael raven
leaden limbs
and heavy sigh
the bathroom fan
hums away
©2023 michael raven
bowl washed
a candle snuffed
i, too, become night
©2023 michael raven
lace around my wrist
bone around my throat
a kiss in blind shadows
a whale song across
crimson waters
scratching, tap-tapping
window crows laughing
yellow teeth in my pocket
chains around my throat
©2023 michael raven
pricked septic & bled in barren stone fields & abandon scraping bone on bone strain to push through outer doors to hel's hanging garden
for interpretations of each rune, follow this link runes in this poem: thurisaz eihwaz hagalaz
©2023 michael raven
I’ve reached the dubious goal of having posted for 1001 days with minimal interruption (a few days here and there of scheduled posts, but always a post) and in that effort, I averaged close to five public posts a day (based on the simple math that I am a few dozen posts away from 5000 public posts).
Equally dubious is my suggestion that I have some have kind of kindred relationship with Scheherazade. I’ve hardly told that many stories, nor is my life on the line. But it came to mind, is soon to be posted and, well, there you are…
There is no cake. The cake was a lie. A thousand days of writing gets you exactly a thousand days of writing. No more. No less.
But you can virtual cake, in fact. Here’s my gift to you for putting up with so much compost from my fingertips. Let me know if it is as yummy as I mean for it to be:
©2023 michael raven
strain against the machine grinding on and on and... we kissed in a weedy alley and twilight slipped away to a darkened room your breast hot in hand as you held it firm in swoon first, ol' one eyed jack then a queen bloody red in laughter they fell to shadows slipstream drunk on oblivion and still the grinding beating at the door tearing lips from lips in a slow fade to white
©2023 michael raven
gone to dirt they will say
shaking their heads in a
ain't-it-a-damned-shame
kind of way but secretly
pleased they won the game
they all played not knowing
it wasn't a game after all
dancing metal after midnight
a tap dripping in moonlight
©2023 michael raven
enough to get by
poor in other ways
slumber now, slumber
©2023 michael raven
no more broken things in the dresser drawer within the secret compartment where such things reside all ham-fisted kintsugi with no gold remaining to hold the essential fused releasing the world to the world in unseeking clay tiles the arrows tumble out from the quiver
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