Poetry competition CLOSED 28th October 2017 00:00am
WINNER
Naajir
Naajir
RUNNER-UP:
Hepcat61
Poem of the Month - November
Related submission no longer exists.
Inside
In the darkness her
Mind screams a chaotic
Lullabye of destruction
Calming the voices in
Her head.
Mind screams a chaotic
Lullabye of destruction
Calming the voices in
Her head.
Written by Darknessisher
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Anonymous
99 Miles in a Suicide Wind
Night’s umber sky will see no sun
The sanded brown of grave stone farms
In ochre hues trace ridgeline paths
Ninety-nine miles in a suicide wind.
In screams of crows that call the dead
And sirens’ songs that break the soul
Escape with only true love’s run
Ninety-nine miles in a suicide wind
With devil’s eyes and demon's calm
That steals the past with dripping claws
And stains the mind no tears can cleanse
Ninety-nine miles in a suicide wind.
In air that smells of battle camps
And fumes that choke a thousand lives
In sheets of snow like virgin ash
Ninety-nine miles in a suicide wind
To wake before its nightmare edge
With taste of death in morning fog
In languid voice the prayers will rise.
Ninety-nine miles in a suicide wind.
The gambles' scores are settled now
As ghosts begin to seek their rest
The mounds of dust are set adrift
Ninety-nine miles in a suicide wind.
(My photo: Cleveland Ave., 10/26/17, Santa Rosa, California - that caught on fire one Sunday night in October).
The sanded brown of grave stone farms
In ochre hues trace ridgeline paths
Ninety-nine miles in a suicide wind.
In screams of crows that call the dead
And sirens’ songs that break the soul
Escape with only true love’s run
Ninety-nine miles in a suicide wind
With devil’s eyes and demon's calm
That steals the past with dripping claws
And stains the mind no tears can cleanse
Ninety-nine miles in a suicide wind.
In air that smells of battle camps
And fumes that choke a thousand lives
In sheets of snow like virgin ash
Ninety-nine miles in a suicide wind
To wake before its nightmare edge
With taste of death in morning fog
In languid voice the prayers will rise.
Ninety-nine miles in a suicide wind.
The gambles' scores are settled now
As ghosts begin to seek their rest
The mounds of dust are set adrift
Ninety-nine miles in a suicide wind.
(My photo: Cleveland Ave., 10/26/17, Santa Rosa, California - that caught on fire one Sunday night in October).
Written by Hepcat61
(geoff cat)
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