Tuesday, November 2, 2010

in cold blood

Sheer cold blood,
Icy as chilling steel,
Pain drowning out every thing,
The good,
The bad,
Numb to happiness,
Could calculating tears tell me what will be my fate,
Fated to pain,
Fated to be abandoned,
Fated to mistreatment,
I could only hope for a painless slumber…..
To cease ………
To end this weary delusion..
To stop the violent shaking
As blood ….sweet blood drips from my hands
I smile …
For it is my own
Candy red
Delightfully deadly
My mortal wound

midnight's call

It is the call to witch we all must answer.
It is the howl of the wind at mid night,
The moons iridescent glow,
It is the sound of the leaves flying past us,
And the feel of the earth beneath our feet.
It is the rush of the danger, the clash of two worlds.
And it is the blood that flows freely with in lat longs for this all.
The heart and soul thirst for the crisp night air.
The burst of pure instinct that finds us there, leads us, our inner wild.
And the midnight caresses us, her faithful children, in a dreamy darkened blue.
As titans clash, as knife and sword are met.
And teeth are bared as the hatred spills the blood on every hand.
Inhuman in almost every way, with speed and strength, with fear and hate.
With only our wildness to guide, we simply fall one by one like the tin soldiers of a child.
From each side of the line, every heart of ours grieves, brothers and sisters fall at the hands of instinct, of history.
To the greedy hands of a hatred lasting centuries, killing all who harbor its spiteful distain.
Still the midnight she calls, calls to her children to return to the blood soaked lands.
Returning only for more violence and death.
And the moons glow is as red as blood, and as chilling as ice.
Making us crave the taste of each others demise in a forest filled with death.
Leavening behind a legacy of only more hate and pain, we fall victim to our fear and lack of understanding.
The howl of the wind is the midnights cry.
The bloody leaves at her feet.
The rush of anger as two worlds clashed.
And the smell of the cursed night air

To some one

One whose eyes shine like the sun,
And a mind as sharp as the warriors sword,
If only to look upon his face,
He could pass with out one word,
Then I would count myself the privileged one ,
For with his presence I was graced.
Just one instant to see those eyes,
By which I am enslaved,
Is worth all the agony and toil,
Even unto the grave,
Naught could that instant spoil,
This slave’s enthralled gaze.
Not even in a second’s time,
Did thoughts my mind haze
For so enraptured by this sight,
I dropped down on unworthy knees,
To cast an undeserving eye,
On his angelically forbidding countenance,
To wonder if it’s me he sees is a nonentity to me,
When all that I care to see,
Is the angel who walks forward past.

- Heather Parris