Unseen Spaces

The World is built
A corner of humanity
It is empty
The pieces that remain abandoned
A World made uninhabited
Forget and forgotten
Maybe you can find a piece of yourself
Where no one looks in anymore.

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Soul leavin’

The end is trotting
to greet me
sitting on my porch I wait
with spiders in my eyes
and cobwebs on my lips

I ain’t got a plot of dirt
to bury my soul innit
but the fires of Hell
to give me comfort

pale of night
Moonshine falling
cutting me in ‘twain

I got no shiver
when you walk to me
your hand is cold
like midwinter breeze

The Devil plucks
another black rose
Ain’t minding one bit
The clock strikes twelve

Lets get the Hell out of here.

Bert & Ernie: A Bitter Cup of Java.

Bert’s jaw slacked open in utter disbelief. The plume of smoke that rose lazily over the distant skyline was growing into a black cloud, staining the clear blue sky. Ambulance and police sirens wailed in the distance like terrified children. “I told’em I’d do it, Bert. Told’em a thousand times. Yes sir, I did.”, Ernie said in a soft voice that Bert barely heard.

Of course he’d heard him talk about it. Many times in fact. “They did it again!”, Ernie would shout enraged, stomping around in their home. “They wrote Erny. ERNY! My name is spelled E-R-N-I-E! ERNIE! Gosh darn it! Next time they get it wrong I’ll blow’em to smitherens, I will, Bert. See if I don’t!” Bert had just shrugged it off as one of his oddball -albeit darker- schemes.

But the crazy bastard had done it. The flames licked at the green and white paint, slowly devouring the woman’s crown and smile.

“This is justice.”, Ernie stated.

Bert could feel his throat dry and raspy. He licked his lips with a deliberate slowness, thinking his next words very carefully. The wailing had grown louder at each passing minute. “Perhaps…perhaps we should go to Dunkin Donuts next time. Eh, Ern?”

Ernie turned to face him. The twinkle in his eyes transformed Bert’s legs into jelly. Ernie stared at him for a few nerve-wracking seconds before cracking a smile. “Yeah, that’d be swell. I do love donuts! Keehehehehehehe!”

A Writer’s inspiration

This writer writhes within their cocoon
of anxiety and uncertainty
how tight their bonds
biting hungrily into their flesh
they want to be seen
fed by the applause of an invisible audience
feel that its skin is not a waste
but how can they keep the twin beasts
of Doubt and Shame at bay?
Rejection is ever looming
threatening to shut their soul
until it withers within itself
death by silence
the writer is alone
every day the mountain mocks
their efforts, their struggle, their hopes, their dreams
they try to climb to the top
one painful word at a time
often it makes them bleed
shivering from fear
the summit is so distant
but every day anew
the climb resumes
there is nothing else to be done
no other thing they would rather face
than the pain of writing
over the death of being silent
and so they write another page
hoping against hope
that tomorrow they will write another
and so on
so forth.

A Mouse is brave

Mordecai’s whiskers twitched. It wasn’t the falling snow that sent a shiver down his spine, though its soft, cold touch certainly did not help. The grey owl was massive. A behemoth of beak, talons and feathers. It met him upon the snowy field; there was no place for him to hide.

The owl hooted, a low rumble from the depths of its bowels. A challenge; it knew the old ways. Small as his foe was -mere prey, some would mock-, the owl granted him this. Whether for its own amusement, or out of genuine respect for standing against it.

Mordecai’s cape flapped back and fro, snapping behind his back. His sword had not been baptized. “Naked steel”, Roderick once called it. Part jest, part truth. He was unproven.

Now, he faced death. His paw’s grip tightened around the handle of the sword to ground himself. The trembling subsided for a bit. Smoke billowed out of his mouth with each breath, would these be his last? It didn’t matter. A challenge had been issued; he raised the handle and pressed it gently over his furry forehead. “To the death, then.”