Walls in the Ocean

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But why build those walls?
Why put yourself out from calm
And shallow travels
Into the disturbing depths
That swallow you in shattered pieces
You, yourself ripped into,
Why marinate in bitterness?
Why dive into the metamorphosis
In which you don’t recognize
When looking into the reflection below,
Why sit, with a tight fist around
Your vacant sound, trapped
In that dark abyss, your throat,
To talk, is to slit your gullet
Then it kills you, leaves you
On the scavenge shores,
Where the black gull swoops down,
And meets your sunken eye,
Why put yourself into torment?
Because pain is who you’re in love with,
He barged in, unexpectedly
When you were most vulnerable
To its spike, that carved deeper
The more you closed up,
It sank you from the collision with
It’s stern, looking down the rabbit hole,
That’s where we lost you,
Why?
Because we stopped looking
For all those small, scattered pieces.

©DorianPoe 2015

The Stranded

I have fought many wars,
Fields, encapsulated my prints
On stages of more defeats, than anything,
Traps and barricades were venomous,
As I tried to elude them on my path
Along the exploding shores
Of crashed lives that were, once
By my side, fighting equal battles,
But, lost along the way as I reach tops
Of mountains above eroded river banks
Holding the frightened sanity, crawling
To the foot of their devil,
I stand alone, defeated in my escape,
How can I rescue the stranded?

©DorianPoe 2015

From the Mountain into a New World

Captivated, by a neverending sprawl
Upon a thick blanket over our eyes,
Not able to see what blooms beyond
Seclusion, of an uneducated heart
As he climbs, were no ray of day
Kisses the mundane,
Just, an everlasting disguise
To cattle sanity within the outer limits,
Yet he pulls forward to the high peak
And looks down upon his prison,
No remorse for abandonment of his box
That kept him cold and prosaic,
Enveloped in strict quarters, he escaped
To find himself on the brink of freedom,
All he has to do, is cross over
Beyond the mountain’s brow,
Into an unknown,
Into the theory, of latitude,
For the gates out of sanity can be found
Where no one dares to climb.

©DorianPoe 2015

Youthful Evermore

Her sickly gaze, catches them
Strolling through, unaware of her
Lurking presence in the midst,
A wooded camouflage, as she
Undresses her desire, for youth
In the unsheath of canine,
Pounce, them in a single tick
As their screams are suffocated
In her narrow gullet, leaving parts
Cold and dry, to the circling vultures,
Stealing what she had lost
Many decades ago, while taking
The blind youth, stranded in her web,
After every drink ingested, she’s back
In her home, the day, the swing crashed.

It was early in the settling sun,
As the shadow is swallowed
By the house, pervading laughter,
When out from the gallow of the door
She emerged, stripped and torn
Apart, from the inside,
Stumbling, on weakened stilts
Through the stillness of hubris
In the watchful eyes of Laius.

©DorianPoe 2015

The Selling Crowd

You push through the heavy draped curtain
Stand, on the cusp of the stage,
Tilt your head back, slightly to the side
Embracing, what’s to rise up next,
Drums, perching on the echo of your ears
As you hum, your own song,
Jeers howling out from the massive crowd
While you applaud yourself
For breaking script, even with the terror
You are held by, locking you in their
Sight, from backstage
Until the end of the show.

©DorianPoe 2015

No Escape for the Weary

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He softly whispers out to her
Hearing himself crack the fragile silence,
Built upon fear, of the ever lurking shadow,
Again, he speaks in shade, begging her
To awake, from a tall crippling clutch
Around her frail and aching heart,
While deep into her succumb of derangement,
She is carried further on still
Black wings that holds her over chaos,
At the same time, his whimpers
Wrestle, with the affliction in the river
Of a distanced soul, once there and felt,
Now cold in the memory of her touch,
His hushed murmur, awakens dread
Bursting out from the darkened abyss
To keep her caged, ripping song from flesh
Feeding it to the mute devours, flocked
Above the decent into the vacuum of life,
Watching striking sorrow, eager to taste it,
Stunning my stance, in the faint glimmer,
I’ve crashed, broken my desire
And have been force fed, to the shadow
Then smiles grimly at the cloud in my heart.

©DorianPoe 2015

Monstrous Tale

A monster among strained souls
Far beyond, the moon’s horizon,
Yet, illuminated is the sinister
Orchestrated by this beast,
Stretching it’s grasp over the land,
Word of this growling shadow
Quickly pervades the glooming ruins,
Stricken, with fear amongst dying light,
Huddled together in muffled breaths
As slow, thunderous steps
Crack the floor above the frightened,
Pulsing through the solemn echoes
Of shaking whimpers, the monster,
Claims its victims, shredding existence
In the embers of a smoldering night,
Far into the bleak stripped town, lies
What all dread, a crushing loss
Haunting the endings hanging by string,
While scraps of a pendulum, decays
Slowly in it’s pit, beckoning for light
To flush out the horror residing
In the deep nightshade of my mind, Taking a sip, from the brimming cup,
Aiding me in my transmogrification
Into what has terrorized, this empty village,
Into what has bled fear, in cold eyes
Resting below my growling thunder.

©DorianPoe 2015

Crippling Tree

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Silence, is awakened by her gusting approach,
Towing with her, another key
From a cold bearing decline,
Temperately landing, amongst the baron branches
That struggles to keep the dangling tales,
When she shrills, a story floods the roots
Unlocked, by the tightly fastened noose
In the shadow of a key,
Weighing down a stunted climb
By hollow horrors in a fabled squawk,
Each bellow of a splattered sentence
Further opens the gaping sinkhole,
She finds distance, to only bestow
An overshadowed key, etched into it
Lies doom, a haunting cloud that rumbles
In the throat of the high winged soar,
A storm that drums the sapless
Held on tightly in constraints
Of the weaved bubble from dirty talons
Fabricating life, and glorifying darkness, Now the tree resides as a sumo
With dear in it’s roots,
Being hugged, by consumption,
Dressed, in an overcrowding, blind deceit,
A warning, never to cross the Rubicon.

©DorianPoe 2015