I am a shadow among the shadows
A silent spectator that thirsts
For blood to run freely
Condemned for eternity
A wraith and nothing more
Looking for my salvation
Between the rush of souls
Unaware of death I bring
Or is it life that I give?
She sits still and in silence
watching the blank screen
empty like her mind,
the cursor blinks tauntingly
again and again and again
waiting impatiently for her fingers
to start dancing on the keys
to spill her thoughts, her memories,
the blood of her enemies
it waits for a confession,
her damning admission
yet she sits there, watching,
I know I’ve been behind with my daily poetry but I will try to do more today.
Promises are whispered into the night
uttered sacred, her trust you gain
but with all the professions of love,
and the intimate caresses, you lied
little by little, until she believes
the honeyed words you whisper
upon her eagerly waiting ears
those stolen nights, in each other’s arms
all an illusion, a story you created
for her eyes to see, heart to dream of
and you laugh in silence at this easy prey
lying in your web, cocooned in a fantasy
a food for your hunger and your desires
-The Elusive Scribe 03102017-
Dark clouds descend upon the unsuspecting minds
the glare of the computer screen is the only light
paying obeisance to the words of faceless people
attaching to them, hungry for a savior
Who we are no longer matters,
we have become slaves of alternate reality
any voice that calls louder becomes our master
while the ones in our heads fade into nothing
Blindly we go on with our lives,
trapped in a nightmare of our own doing
puppet heads on positions of power
who to blame but us, the nation?
For, sadly, we no longer know who we are,
consumed by the thoughts of the hungry masses,
soulless we have become, indifferent to each other’s plight
silent and cold, our true voices no longer heard.
-The Elusive Scribe 03082017-
She lies still in her bed
a bier of forgotten memories
no stranger to death
she sleeps, dreamless
porcelained skin shining
upon red satin sheets
the call of blood ever grows
stirring from within
waiting for the sun to sleep
for the night is her master
and he beckons from the shadows
-The Elusive Scribe 03082017-
A collaboration of some sorts with a close friend of mine. Hope you like it. 🙂
Is there a place where we could blur the lines?
Disconnect and reconnect the things that break us?
Half truths brought to light to form new bonds.
Twisted paths erased and made anew.
An image manufactured in a weightless room
like questions caught up in a telephone wire
like shadows decorating the corridors of our past
and yet i’m falling slowly.
To that blissfull darkness that beckons
enveloped in silence carrying me onwards.
To the farthest corners where I may find
a reprieve for my wandering soul.
A place where silence echoes beyond all reasons
where seconds divide themselves half-heartedly.
A place where a place is not really a place,
forever and ever,
and ever and ever.
-GMU/The Elusive Scribe 013013-
She writes of her dreams on every page of her book,
her mindless scribbling echoing in the day.
By night she sits by the fire reading her jumbled thoughts,
putting together fragments of images in her mind,
until they become a story she can tell,
to the friendly shadows that wait.
She beckons them to come closer,
the darkness where her friends hide.
You can see the blackness pressing in on her,
yet she smiles that knowing smile,
the fire from the hearth still glowing bright.
She opens her mouth to tell her tale,
of shadows that whisper old forgotten tales.
You can feel the darkness basking in delight.
She remembers them you see, especially how they came to be,
the darkness that you and I fear,
when we were young with imagination running free.
She speaks of forgotten lore and magic spells,
of languages long gone and broken,
threading her whispered tales upon the crackling flame,
the darkness slowly backing away.
For the night is done and her words are all slurred.
Tonight she will dream again and tomorrow she will write.
-The Elusive Scribe 020713-
Her heart lies dormant beneath the floorboards of her hearth,
cold, lifeless, not beating.
No one knows why she walks about unfeeling,
even when the cold wind blows or the storms come.
She walks as if she’s not drenched from head to foot
nor riddled with icicles from her eyebrows to the tips of her hair.
An ice queen she is,
through and through.
And yet when the first rays of the sun of summer
pierces the frost that envelopes her being
you can see,
apple blossom cheeks,
lips as red as strawberries ripe,
her eyes glistening like morning dews.
And her heart, oh, how can you not hear her beating heart?
From the floorboards she removes her treasure,
and places it upon her chest.
And she is one with the morning sun,
and she dances to the tune of revelry
underneath the blossoming tree.
Gone is the ice queen replaced by her sister warm.
The summer queen has come and with her
the land opened up to the heat of the blazing orb.
That brings out the buds of seeds already sown,
and into the valley green the flowers bloom,
and the butterflies come in a haze of purple and blue,
and you know that the winter has ended,
and it is time to sing a merry tune.
– The Elusive Scribe 020513-
At first light she opens her eyes,
rosy cheeks bedimpled as she smiles.
With her hand she reaches out,
to touch the sun’s rays caressing
her window pane.
A breath of sigh escapes her parted lips,
contentment she bears in every line of her face.
Her body slowly opens up to the day,
as she uncurls her limbs from night’s embrace.
Stretching body with sensuous delight
falling sheet slowly cascading,
on smooth skin that glistens in the light,
never ending like sparkling wine.
I’ve often stumbled when stringing words together,
to put together a clearer picture of what is running in
I thought I can be as amazing as the gods of poetry,
names you already know and have read endlessly.
I was mistaken.
I am but a child still learning how to form a word,
a thought that will clearly be understood by his
What he wants, why he cries.
I’ve picked up my pen only to lower it down.
My thoughts incoherent all a jumble.
I start to write words only to erase them with a bold
not the way i thought writing would be.
I was thinking that maybe a light bulb will turn on
somewhere in my mind,
to light my path so the words will flow to my pen
so I can write without any hindrances.
Only to find out that the bulb is busted
and I’m still searching for words to write down.
-The Elusive Scribe 020413-