A Much Needed Update!! - A Poem

The Barren
By Jenna Reimer

In the end you are weary of this abandoned world.
Among your fetishes in a weak and soulless flame
That fume a sky of clouded doubt and unknown,
Where a fury of scarred electric stars and blazing moons
Exist in a furnace of cobalt and crimson hollows,
You tremble in a league admit a blinded fleet.
Drifting ashes brush the faces of preset men
Wanting to walk home and simply retire.
Yet, you launch into a solemn slumber,
Aloft the drift of deep delirium in an exiled sleep;
Dying in a tamed and watchful sorrow.

Sleep Till Death

Striking from hell’s angry grave,
We are aloft the white peaks of a mad sea.
While shells of skulls and earth remain,
The flesh of bone perishes amid the furry.

Life’s Disease

He is standing there
On the edge of my vision
With mine eyes in his eyes,
My body the body of his hands.
In a clean forget he will
Soon take up his life and walk.

He cloaks my essence
In a delicate wild thing
That speaks for me when my
Words escape into a watchful sky;
Where stones disappear
Into a silken sphere.

Torn in a prideful burn
He preys tiredly, and weak
Until the rains rain drowns
Us both in a mindful sorrow;
Until we break and cry
Into the looming moon.

Ode to a Dead Crow

Blackened substance, oh dry winged bird.
In my fall the scent of your petal
has locked your wary heart you so wish to settle.
I had just passed by peaceably,
sheepishly
with fury and forgotten,
until the glisten of coal black feathers
caught my eye, appearing as drift wood so rotten.

Reflecting my own obscene tears
of a world gone on over or after,
with many deaths of childhood laughter.
Your feathers burn, feathers marked,
a family cry like wounded helm,
a mug shot moon has transformed this realm.
A trail of hot bloody footsteps shove our shadows
and your horrific insides adorn the street.

I stare in drunkenness on shifting sidewalk
where lonesome figures call
whose fatigued tears, logically, cannot fall.
My vision focused on your eyes
softly glancing towards the very thing
that once carried your breast your beak your wing.
How unfortunate that Sundays always burn.

The Birthplace

You are as in a magnolia
amidst a great burst of thunder;
the power to stand still.
No breeze of wind
but your breeze is far greater.

The earth set in motion
by a ravenous sea,
foaming rivers of an eminent flood.
The ocean breathes, shivers and continues.
You are so endlessly submissive,
drawn to a destiny staying aware
of a sea’s grievous.

Edible flowers withstand
the hard crash of arterial water,
gathered in eternal vessels
so that those imprisoned
by October’s arrogance,
may be given your lucid wave.

Vision of Stone

My tired self creates lack of will,
one that hinders shadowed holes.
My bed protects from spitting twill;
breathe of dirt and burning coals.
Disorder breaks our misspoken words,
visions of boys in streets are blurred,
voices through walls are heard.
He leans in and whispers softly hatred.

A forbidden slumber in his keep
revealed a sickened myriad tale.
Piercing cries spoil restless sleep;
a woman’s strength to which none avail.
His empty eyes, eyes that seem
to walk you past bone that has been.
A dead mans law he cannot redeem;
eyes that tell when ours do meet.

The air had thickened with fated rage,
a scene fueled no longer by sullen word.
His voice fades with veiled winds of age;
familiar hisses again are heard.
My blind houseboy appears wherein,
this room is no longer an affair within.
He swallows whole and begins to grin,
“Perhaps it’s not your petty lies that haunt you.”