Visited

I lay my head down, eager to drift into a somber huddle,

But I feel an outstretched, bleak reach invading

My chest, sunken in, cracking the cage around the castle,

As silence stands, defenseless against the owl’s screech

I shut my eyes, and try to halt the vigorous spinning

Inside my head, as flashes of probability, is projected

Onto the backs of my eyelids, who is this visiting,

A touch, familiar, enlarges the drumbeat’s echo,

While I can’t distinguish, this perplexing occurrence,

I know it’s desire, its prelude to the awaited for cessation,

An evident resident, in the eerie hours of unrest,

How many nights, does this being visit my side of the bed

To watch me tremble, knowing of its ominous presence,

Even then, I have sleep paralysis from an absent dread

That surfaces, from its deep growl, and slowly ascends

Over me, gaining a glimpse, into my palpable panic,

Rapid, boisterous breathing and a feverish sweat,

Happens within a tick of an old, dried up clock,

Forgotten to be wound up, and given a entryway

For those that time, gives no pardon.

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The Short Notice

Subtlety, is shrouded in imperfections,
No passion in it’s blips,
Nothing to revel in
But the short gasps of air,
Suffocating from second, to second,
Gaining nothing, losing moments
That slip through the clips,
Everything said and done, even before
You opened your eyes from blinking,
Missed the opportunity,
Missed that part of the day
When all that matters to you, is lined up
So perfectly, to be washed away anyway,
And on such short notice,
We move through it all, to come out
Empty handed to the stage, laughed at
For not being on time and prepared
On such short notice,
You can’t hang on her word that dripped down
A mere second ago,
She’s on a different subject,
Lost in the conversation, not from intruige
But, from analysis,
She walks out on you
During your perplexing state
On such short notice, to be where you can’t,
You shouldn’t live for the moment, for it
Comes and goes before you notice it.

©DorianPoe2016

In the Distance of Time

A constant chill, rushes through
These bodies, deserted channels
Haunted, by a love, buried from sight,
Their whispers are forgotten pieces
Of a rich history, bled out,
Dried up, in the destruction of the wasteland,
No sun to warm the two, wrapped
In each other, their blanket arms
Lost in the bitter bite,
Still, a smile under dust
Outlines the fading ledge of the earth,
Distant from life, but firm grasp
Kept, throughout the decay around them,
Even when blown away, they grow back
For they are rooted, in love.

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©DorianPoe 2015

Garden of Time

I slit the neck of time
As the wolf, prowls the town
Carrying with him, a stench
So fowl, it rots the stone of death,
A scream, far from where I stand
Vibrates the puddle that pools
My sweat, when the wolf
Corrals my sight,
Still, clenching onto the knife
Dripping moments, onto a scorched plank,
I feel a cold tremble, rising up my spine
As the wolf backs me
Into an eclipse, swallowing the sand
Flooding out of the shattered hourglass,
And suddenly that scream, vanishes
Into the gullet of the wolf
Howling, at the echoes of the clock.