Hope in a Pine Box

I don't really favour this one honestly. I wrote it when I was sick, and it felt plain and boring to me. But it's still a poem that has meaning to me, so I figured I'd share it regardless.

Hope in a Pine Box

Bury the past

Rooted in the present

Growing t‘wards the future

Rising in the moment,

Falling from a memory

Fury of a bedlam

Faded petal settling

Roses of rebellion

Frozen in the dirt

Aegis of the earth

Thorns of devil horns

Spurning magnum opus words

Floating fleeting allegiances

To the cornucopias metamorphosis

In the fabricated madness

Evangelion neogenesis

As the heavenless sky bled dry dines on rhymes

As if the stars aligned rot away under twilight knifes,

With a plate of life and aged dry wine, and deteriorated rhymes

I want seconds, but I’ve already eaten away at years, the way the cookie crumbles

Roses slovenly opposing matrimonial colonialism

As the scattered flowers pattern gallows

Lisp Salem’s shadow disembowelling owls

And the cold wind howls drowning shallow

The malachite Valkyries etching messages

Ambidextrous to the molecular fray

The bloodties dry rain

The empty mannequins pray

Avenging insanities fray

Blind is search of some sort of hope

The bending slope a lycanthrope kaleidoscope

Of indecipherable ivory stone they call a heart

That reads them love when light goes dark,

As lightning rings the fingered god

And flesh breaks down to mulch and sod

The pitch has thrown the ball of light

The sunshine fine as powdered grime

The unsung sign the depths of time

A once strong sight has gambled blind

The undone blight, the fruit so ripe

 

The window black, the shadow white

The willow-wisp scythe burnt crisped in night

Barking Arkham, every bite

Marking sulfur ‘cross the sky

The rhythmic spindle unforgiving

Brimstone lukewarm foreign, phantasmagorical

Tomorrow bore mournful agoraphobia

Trapped in the Rorschach attic a cataclyst

Rapture venacular of decapitated words

Spurn on by the bonds of homonyms

Dominating the swansongs of cotton clouds

Rotten mouth spit ignition disfigured vows

Lingering in the algorithm's of amalgamation

I made my bed, I lie in it

I paid my debt I die for it

I play my game, rolled my dice

Nothing left behind but the fabric of history

Worn without regret

Sown from Death's fingertips

Grown from depth's asterisks, static of an afterimage

Author's Note

I'm happy I wrote it even if it could have been better. It helped my mind a little bit, stopped me from rusting away to nothingness.

I promise I read every single review, and I generally will reply to them. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be happy to hear anything you feel needs sharing. Whenever you write on my shortcomings or breakthroughs, or the themes of my poems, or share ideas and friendly criticism, it decides my next poem to an extent. I will listen, learn and be thankful. And 99% of the time, you'll get a reply unless you're trolling me.

Reviews

[Ethan]

Are you always so sceptical? ...come on man look at me, I can't even write these. Great great...

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

I'm glad you enjoyed it. :) Maybe I'm a little too hard on myself.