Moon Child 

The night wept
For the moon child that slept
In a pool of blood
At the feet of its lord.
Its suffering is gone
But another moon child will be born
To serve the sun
And another circle will begin.

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All Of Me

My body is radiant,
But my soul is broken
And if you had come in,
Upon the faces filled with tears
Just as I left the woods in dead fire,
You would have seen me,
A voice of the untold.

I am yours to speak,
Colourful as my mother’s spring.
They left a spark behind,
But do I need to say more…

Before dusk set and all is feared,
Remember you dance upon my palm,
Your voice was as sweet as the angered sea
That washes away my displeasure.
But now like a hidden gem,
You seek to cleanse me amongst your dirt.

I will set out on my pilgrimage
Upon the arid, pale desert,
My voice loud and piercing
I will scream for none to hear…

My body is radiant
And my soul is broken
Upon you that sent me.
This is my grieving misfortune,
All I have given myself is pain
To avenge all your rage upon myself.

Oh, you pasture of green
And Seas of green,
Run into the darkness –
Your desires are no longer mine!

I wish I could make your world tremble
That all may know
A man is dismay upon this soil!
My body quivers
And my soul trembles;
I am a man misfortune(d) by love.

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False Light

The light grew dimmer by the hour.
Dark, impish shadows dance on their walls, not ours.
Twice, the room shuddered from the stamping above the stairs.
Twice, the cold form wrapped itself behind my chair.

There is a trail of his blood against your ashen lips
And the laments of a broken dream on your fingertips.
Is that the harbinger of the revelation of lights
Or the tools to seal his sights? A heart sits on the table, torn and
bleeding,
The scared blood spluttered across the walls. Are you asleep?
Sleeping
Unaccompanied in the confines of our casket
Waiting for my return with a basketful of warm, pounding hearts. A
basket?   Three hooded forms stood silhouetted against the windows.
Probably, in search of the ways of the shadows,
A gentle tap on the door and the once again, the room shuddered.
Through the eyes on my hands, I see a soul, murdered.   Shards of
glass trend along your body
My goggling eyes are prickled with our needles. Bloody
Is the sight of your innards gobbled to the floor
And the crown of your head on the knob of the door.   There is more
to this path, which we have embarked on.
Look at the redden sky and the burning sun,
They sing of our inevitable fall
Before the Titans’ bleeding wall.

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Tortured

And we bleed,
Slowly by your sprained bedside;
Singing in the hollow twilight
Of your dusts and leads
Within the oozing pus of your hide.
We search for a view beyond your fragmented sight,
Is that a flower blossoming
Amidst the festering wounds of your thorny heart?
The sun sets beyond your fractured horizon,
The rage with which it dies is consuming,
The death breath from its hissing nostrils flames the art
Of our patched bones.
We hear you gasp.
There is nothing to the sightlessness of your eyes
Nor the decomposition of your fungus ridden body
For we are nought but of the dust, a furtive lapse.
There is little to the jaded dice
Created from the corroded symmetry of this body,
Your heart-broken, sinewy straws are still a perilous clutch,
Evident in Nature’s form lying prone at your feet, comatose.
Though, amidst your powdery framework, we came to rest,
But in this ruptured presence, we can only stare at your watch.

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Poems (c) Anne Axis