©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
Ever notice that most people never really like reading poetry? Perhaps there is a reason.
©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
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
©2023 michael raven
there, in waiting cold carved lime underseat at bluffs over snaking silver lazy languishing down down to the mouth of the sea kicking feet over empty, waiting to fly
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