An elegy for your inspiration

Remember reading that one poem that really spoke to you & inspired you to start writing yourself? Who was that author? Whether they're dead or alive, give some of your time to dedicate a poem of your own to their ingeniousness.

Not sure if this fits the criteria, if not, let me know, and I'll delete it!
This is dedicated to Edgar Allen Poe!

Of Cemetary Dreams (And Nightmare Scapes)

awoke again to the sounds of death
the creeping silence of restless breath
the sounds I hear I cannot mistake
only death can sound this way

I feel the sun upon my face
enraptured in its warm embrace
within my eyes I see its glow
even though my eyes are closed

a whispered wind invades my ear
I feel the world that I can hear
the channeled sounds of lifeless life
the lonely cries of those who have died

I open my eyes to see the sun
and find the world has come undone
a dark eclipse shades my face
lost within a shadowed embrace

markers with dates of death descend
as far as my eyes can transcend
in every direction I can see
the stones of death surrounding me

wilted flowers with decaying leaves
symbols of love from those who grieve
tattered angels with broken wings
left by those who truly believe

the leaves within the trees have gone
skeletal beings with demon claws
scratching and clawing at the wind
coming to life again and again

I turn to find a place to run
looking to see the warming sun
but the black and grey in the sky
pulls the color from my eyes

from the clouds the rain falls down
it floods my soul and my spirit drowns
below my feet the muddy ground
swallows my shoes and keeps me bound

I hear the whispers of the living dead
their cries for life echo through my head
I cover my ears to mute the screams
but it seems that they re inside of me

to my knees into the mud
I tilt my head to the shadowed sun
I scream aloud at the sky
to silence deaths woeful cries

the falling rain stings my eyes
and burns the color to lifeless white
streams of blood flow down my face
within my mouth the salty taste

I push the mud with my hands
with all my might I try to stand
to my thighs the mud has crept
and now my arms are elbow deep

I feel the muck against my skin
it moves and pulls and draws me in
I strain and fight to break its grasp
until I feel I might collapse

I scream and cry and beg for help
even though I'm by myself
into the wind my lonely pleas
melding with the dead that scream

as whispers creep into my ears
the sounds of death is what I hear
my own demise before my eyes
among the stones of death that rise

peering through the rains that blind
upon a stone my name I find
carved within the granite face
its here that is my resting place

the ground has drawn me to my grave
the trees were clawing at this place
the whispered voices were trying to say
that everything will be ok

to just let go and wait and see
the whispers were meant to comfort me
to try ease my rising fears
even though I refused to hear

the sun reflects on the granite face
the flowers feel its warm embrace
upon the ground I feel its glow
even though my eyes are closed

wilted flowers with drying leaves
left for me by those who grieve
tattered angels with broken wings
left on my stone for company

the whispered voices in the wind
rising up to sing again
a channeled sounds of joyous lives
reunited on the other side

      the alpha of deeds


(based on ‘tumbling hair’ by E. E. Cummings)


she came often to this fragrant field, this smiling little girl
with golden hair tumbling as she skipped. the buttercups &
violets welcomed her. the daisies, despite their ill tempers,
were almost joyful to give up their lives to her hand.

this was her alpha, to gather these small gifts of nature &
share them with others. her village was blessed with peace,
and no evil occurred there or in this field.

but on this day, another was there, watching. the sorrow in his
eyes gave testament to his regret, his compulsion. he had seen
her before, alone & unprotected, in this field, & his terrible hunger
was conceived & grew.

it was not his fault, he assured himself. It was the command of the
‘demon’ within that ruled him. like Pontius Pilate, he washed his hands
of his guilt, as he pursued his alpha, & committed his fatal deed…

the angels observed this deed, as they observed all deeds on this
revolving planet. but they were present only to bear witness, they
were not permitted to interfere. being gentle creatures, their witnessing
made them weep, & their tears became the cold rain that coats
the earth.

that beautiful things grow, nourished by that rain,
is the irony of it.

and the fragrant fields of beautiful things, the daisies & buttercups,
will attract other little girls. and those little girls, who are made of
innocence & purity & the illusion that nothing bad will ever happen,
will attract other monsters.

this is our story as we know it.

Mary Elizabeth Frye's 'Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep' was one of those poems that really hit me hard and inspired me.
If this was dedicated to anyone, it would be her and her poem.
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- It's Just Begun -

And all that Thicked and Thinned
Was but dust in the wind
                                              Return to Dust
                                          Return to Wind
                                      Return to Earth
                                  Return to Home
                              Return to warmth of mother's womb
                         Return
                     Return
                Beyond the Womb
            Return to me
         Return
      Return

DEEPER ROUTE§

A flame, a spark, from beyond beknown
A ray of pure simplicity
Inner webs fuse, alive,  fit the brief
Shale Passions, clone complexity

Lightly falls and upon softly settles
Worn heart torn shoulders, direct on route
Sceptable emotions, thrive inside
Guiding sight past lies,  to the pit of every truth

Out of the blue, behind brown eyes
A heavy burden born to bare
Weeds of fickle destruction rise
Fumes deepest purple, errupt  evaporate into thin air

Noble aggression modestly quaint
Broard emptiness Tempting the mind
Tasting silence  dimensionals fifth
Every past life reborn more divine

Abrupt nights fall
Into days abduct break
Old soul heeding knowledge erased
Depths of a lonely  heart, mark a darkening  spark
Salty exit wound, illicit dreaming, mares wild nightingale laced

Fire in my belly
Skyrockets fill my eyes
Mere words, an understatment
Meditate the escape, the porthole element loop disguise

Sounds begin to tune back in, Body temp returns to core
Peepers slowly open, just as quickly shutter close
Shallow smile seals her speech, spilling truths to none asleep
Resurrect the faded awe, to those in tune woe reeps.

Museless


I took creative writing in college
Was constantly being corrected for being creative
Homer and Shakespeare made reading a chore
And chaucer with those tales, mostly a bore

I only knew that writing was tedious when assigned
And daydreams consumed my time for a while
I'd stare out the window in that class and wonder
If there was really a way to teach writing
That was honest

My muse didn't exist in words on pages
It began as a lump in my throat cloaked in justice
And nothing felt better until I purged it
Like bleeding through a pen onto a page of possibility
It came and consumed me

Since then I've found better writers to read
But still when its my turn to let loose the beast
It is just me
Without a clue what I'm doing until I'm done
I can't claim to know what that's from

Wow. Thanks for the win! and great job to everyone who participated in this comp!