Lost to ambiguity,

I’m nothing.

Obstacles with no substance

nor logic conquer all.

Circumstances are conspiracies.

My anger’s self-righteousness

must win the war.

All in life plans to witness

my reactivity and self-destruction

because, of course,

the world revolves around my demise;

saying otherwise is a risky lie.

Read full poem on Vocal.

Photo Credit: Gioele Fazzeri 

More Poetry

A Plea To Death

Winged

Elemental Magic – Fire

I had not thought of violets late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet
In wistful April days, when lovers mate
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.
The thought of violets meant florists’ shops,
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;
And garish lights, and mincing little fops
And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines.
So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams;
The perfect loveliness that God has made,—
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.
And now—unwittingly, you’ve made me dream
Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.

© Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson – Source: Poetry Foundation

Alone in the library room, even when others
Are there in the room, alone, except for themselves:
There is the illusion of peace; the air in the room
Is stilled; there are reading lights on the tables,
Looking as if they’re reading, looking as if
They’re studying the text, and understanding,

Shedding light on what the words are saying;
But under their steady imbecile gaze the page
Is blank, patiently waiting not to be blank.

The page is blank until the mind that reads
Crosses the black river, seeking the Queen
Of the Underworld, Persephone, where she sits

By the side of the one who brought her there from Enna,
Hades the mute, the deaf, king of the dead letter;
She is clothed in the beautiful garment of our thousand

Misunderstandings of the sacred text.

© David Ferry – Source: Poem Hunter

Someone standing at the mouth had
the idea to enter. To go further

than light or language could
go. As they followed
the idea, light and language followed

like two wolves—panting, hearing themselves
panting. A shapeless scent
in the damp air …

Keep going, the idea said.

Someone kept going. Deeper and deeper, they saw
others had been there. Others had left

objects that couldn’t have found their way
there alone. Ocher-stained shells. Bird bones. Grounded
hematite. On the walls,

as if stepping into history, someone saw
their purpose: cows. Bulls. Bison. Deer. Horses—
some pregnant, some slaughtered.

The wild-
life seemed wild and alive, moving

when someone moved, casting their shadows
on the shadows stretching
in every direction. Keep going,

the idea said again. Go …

Someone continued. They followed the idea so far inside that
outside was another idea.

© Paul Tran – Source: Poetry Foundation

Gothic Style Throne Room by Concept Artist Joey Leung on ArtStation

How quickly our thrones become cages

from a single stroke of misery.

Convinced our legacies past

are erased by hidden difficulty.

Dismay destructs our strengths

lighting fire at our feet;

weakness become more transparent

than the thinnest silk sheets.

Don’t forget your prudence

in hours of adversity.

Unlock your cage and venture

to rebuild and ground your dignity.

Prose of The High Priestess

Close your eyes. Fall. Let her catch you; if she doesn’t, know that there’s no intention to break your trust, but unconsciously keep a better promise through a deep dive into your psyche.

Close your eyes. Listen. Even when your eyes are open, you can feel her screaming in your most vulnerable places; your gut and your heart. Relentlessly, she struggles against your consciousness that is almost convinced to ignore her and instead let outside forces have the final say.